The Inquisitor
by dharmamonkey
Summary: England 1558. Father Seeley Booth is appointed inquisitor during the reign of Mary I in her attempt to purge heresy from the realm. The midwife Temperance Brennan is arrested for witchcraft. Booth must get her to confess & repent. Obviously very AU. Complete.
1. The Appointment

**The Inquisitor**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128

**Rated: **M

**Disclaimer: **So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox via adverse possession. ::blinks:: Okay, not really. But, you get the gist.

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><p><strong>Summary: <strong>England. 1558. Father Seeley Booth, a Black Friar of the Dominican Order, is appointed local inquisitor during the reign of Mary I in her attempt to purge heretics from her realm. The midwife Temperance Brennan, the daughter of a London apothecary, is arrested and brought before the local tribunal. What happens when Booth interrogates Brennan in an attempt to get her to confess? Very, very AU and, eventually, very M.

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><p><strong>AN: **_This is a bit of an experimental piece for the writing cooperative called Dharmasera, Inc. We write lots of AU pieces, some of them more AU than others, but this time, we went where neither of us really expected we'd go: with a historical AU piece. We wanted to take B&B, as people, with their core personalities, and lift them out of the early 21st century United States law enforcement context and plunk them down in another century, in other occupations, in another social milieu, and see what happens._

_There are loyal Dharmasera readers among you who won't like this piece for various reasons. We know that, and honestly, we're so okay with it that we've come to expect it._

_There are people who may find the concept—a liaison between a priest and a woman accused of witchcraft—unduly lurid, offensive or anti-Catholic (which is how some people felt when the 1980s miniseries The Thorn Birds came out), and we honestly say that is absolutely not the intent at all (and, like that miniseries, we hope more people dig this than hate it). We accept that this piece, perhaps more than any other piece we've written to date, won't be for everyone._

_We promise you this: it will be well-written, carefully researched, as true to the characters' core personalities as we can make them (stripping away the elements that are contingent on them living in the 20th and 21st century), and very steamy._

_If you're still with us, read on. If not, no worries. We'll catch up with you next time._

**A Short Note on Diction/Syntax**: _We the authors would like to toss out a small note on the style/diction/syntax choices we made in crafting this story. While we were well aware that by setting this story in 16th century England, how people talked to one another would change as compared with our normal Bones dialogue lexicon. However, we didn't want to make the narrative so ponderous and inaccessible to modern readers that they wouldn't be able to 'hear' the Booth and Brennan that we've all come to know and love in their counterparts in this story. Thus, we've tried to keep the British vernacular and Tudor-era parlance to a minimum, which is why our characters aren't swearing up a bloody storm left and right (although a few 'impertinent wenches' did sneak in here and there—we just couldn't help ourselves, so sorry!). Wherever we could, we've removed the ultra modern word choice and slang from the story. So, while our choices may not be 100% historically accurate, we do hope they make the story more easy for you, the reader, to understand and enjoy._

**Unf Alert: **_This piece will eventually contain some serious unfness. The kind that makes you blush and sweat a little. If you don't care for that sort of thing, stop reading now. If you're okay with it, buckle up, set the time circuits for May 1558, make sure the flux capacitor is fluxing, and hold on!_

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: The Appointment<strong>

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><p>Cardinal Reginald de la Pole, the Archbishop of Canterbury, sat staring out the window as the early summer breeze swished through the trees outside of his large, luxuriously-furnished office in Lambeth Palace. He heard the massive wooden door unseal from its jamb, held open by a black-robed arm as his expected visitor walked through the doorway, but Pole did not turn his eyes from the window until he heard the door close behind with a loud <em>clank<em>. Pole turned around and a smile spread across his lips as a young man clad in the white robes and black hooded overcloak of a Dominican friar walked towards his desk.

"My son," he said as he rose to his feet and walking around to the front of his well-worn, time-burnished desk of solid English oak.

"Your Eminence," Father Seeley Booth said, bowing his head as Pole approached him. He held out his right hand in standard anticipation, and Booth closed his eyes and kissed the faceted sapphire of his signet ring.

"Oh, come, now," Pole said, touching the top of Booth's head with the open palm of his hand as if giving him a silent benediction once Booth had paid homage to him in the typical fashion through which princes of the church had been greeted for more than a millenium. He pulled his hand away and looked at the young priest with a smile, then pulled him into an embrace. "It's been a long time, my boy."

"It has, Your Eminence," Booth replied, wincing a bit as Pole's bushy brown beard tickled his neck. Pole released his embrace and stepped back to look at the young priest, scanning his form from head to toe. "Though I'm no longer quite the same boy that you may remember," he noted with a grin.

"You _have _grown," Pole conceded. "You're much taller than I remember you being at the first time I gazed up a gangly overeager youth with a mop of brown hair and a smile that shone how eager he was to please his masters in Latin and Greek, but I'm certain that's just my old man's memory playing tricks on me." He stopped and then said, "Or, perhaps it's just that you've grown into yourself."

"Perhaps," Booth told the cardinal with a nod. "Although, to be fair, it's just as possible that I may have grown a bit considering the fact that I wasn't much more than a boy the first time we met in Padua."

Pole chuckled, then walked back around to take his seat behind his desk. "That seems like an exceedingly long time ago, doesn't it, Father?" he asked, gesturing with his open hand for Booth to take a seat in the light brown Cordovan leather chair that sat in front of the desk. "You were, what—seventeen?"

Booth blushed slightly and grinned. "Just turned eighteen, Your Eminence," he replied. "I took my vows at seventeen, and within a year was sent by my home diocese to Padua to read canon law."

"The rest," Pole said with an appreciative nod, "is history, isn't it?"

"Indeed, Your Eminence," Booth agreed, glancing over the Archbishop's shoulder as he looked out the window and saw the swaying branches dancing in the breeze outside.

Pole narrowed his eyes and looked at his young protégé for several long moments. At thirty years of age, he had matured into a sensitive, discerning man, well-spoken and clever, fluent in Italian and French—no doubt helped by all the time he'd spent reading law at the universities in Padua and Paris and practicing before the curiae in Rome—plus enough rudimentary German to get by in the cantons on the north side of the Pennine Alps, as well as New Testament Greek, the Latin of the Holy Church and, of course, his native tongue. He had a natural charm, and was the kind of man that most people liked almost instantly upon meeting him. And, while Pole knew it shouldn't matter, it certainly did not hurt that Father Seeley Booth was a handsome man, tall and well-built, with broad shoulders, a strong, square jaw, high cheekbones and warm, expressive, deeply-set brown eyes.

At last, he nodded as if in silent assent to something he had said to himself, then raised his head and spoke once more.

"You've been back in England for what now—nine months?" the older man asked, looking at Booth with a critical eye.

"Ten, actually," Booth replied. "I arrived at Ramsgate in July last."

"And you're happy to be back home?" Pole asked with a smile.

Booth pondered the question for a few moments. "To be honest, Your Eminence," he said quietly, "I'm not sure I have a place I can truly call home. I left my father's house at the age of twelve to study at one of the monastic schools in Kent, and at eighteen went to Italy. I am only now back in England for the first time in many years after over a decade spent abroad. So, I think it's fair to say that the only home I know, Your Eminence, is God's Holy Church."

Pole narrowed his eyes and considered the remark, then nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed," he murmured. "This is in part, I suppose, why I have asked you here today. Because your loyalty lies with the Church, and not with..." The archbishop paused, shrugged silently, then continued. "Not with the shifting sands of politics or dynasties or...even with family ties. You've always been a man who served faithfully the Holy Mother Church above all else, and that's something I've always respected about you, especially considering that we both are Englishmen who've come of age in a time when family allegiances and the bonds of kinship have seen the rise and fall of a great many people in this realm, both high and low."

"Yes, Your Eminence," Booth replied quietly with a slight nod of his head.

"I'm told you are doing excellent work in support of the recent efforts here in England," Pole said. "Though to say so I do not mean to imply that such a thing comes as any sort of surprise to me. I sent for you last summer because I consider you one of the finest canon lawyers this side of the Alps...and I don't only say that since we both hail from England, although I did take pride in the fact that your record of performance in the curia unsettled a great many obnoxious Italians and Germans alike."

Booth blushed a bit at the compliment but was unable to suppress a grin. "Thank you, Your Eminence."

A smirk danced across Pole's lips as he saw his young protégé's natural confidence emerge again as Booth began to relax. "No thanks are necessary, my son. It's just a simple statement of fact—and a fact that I think that tells us that it's time for you to assume a greater responsibility, my son." Booth's eyebrows flew up in surprise as he watched the archbishop reach across his desk for a sealed scroll. Pole handed him the scroll. Booth stared at it for a moment as he held the sealed scroll in his hands. "Go ahead, Father. It won't bite. Open it."

Booth blinked, then peeled away the wax seal with his thumb as he unrolled the document. His forehead creased as he read the letter. "I'm...I...I don't know what to say, Your Eminence," he finally answered, his voice more hushed than normal and immediately betraying how much the contents of the scroll had affected him.

"I told you," Pole said simply. "I consider you the one of the finest _doctores legum _outside of Italy. And, you know in this time since Queen Mary returned England to the bosom of the Holy Mother Church from which her father and half-brother ripped it so viciously, it's taken some efforts to root out heresy that's so clearly blatant in this kingdom—it's almost as bad as it's been on the continent in the realm of the Emperor. We've made some progress here, but there's still more work to be done. And, since you've supported this Holy Inquisition from—well, shall we say, the second chair, as the analogy goes, I believe it's time you moved up and took a more active role by moving to the first chair, as it were. I asked the Holy Father for dispensation to appoint you as an Inquisitor, despite your relative youth. My request was granted by His Holiness without any hesitation...which, I like to think, was just because the Pope likes me, but in truth might have something to do with him respecting the fact that I trained you myself."

As Pole stared at him expectantly, Booth couldn't do more than let his mouth drop open partially as he considered the older man's words. At last, he said, "My deepest gratitude, Your Eminence. I hope that I won't disappoint you. I give you my word that I'll do the best to honor this supreme mark of confidence you've given me in your judgement of my abilities."

"A bit surprised, there, are you?" Pole asked, obviously enjoying the disbelief clearly writ on Booth's face.

Slowly, he nodded mutely.

At this, Pole chuckled. "For one who's as talented as you are with the spoken word, particularly given your extensive rhetorical and argumentative training, I think I'm quite pleased to have rendered you speechless."

Booth tilted his head as he considered Pole's words. "Aside from my thanks...I'm not quite sure what else to say—"

Pole shook his head. "Perhaps, 'When may I start?'" he said with a wry smile. "And, in case you were wondering, the answer to which question would be, 'immediately.' There is a particular case that has caused some difficulty here in London that I was hoping you would be able to begin work on forthwith."

With a jerk of his chin, the archbishop gestured towards a stack of folios and vellum documents on the corner of his desk. "A midwife in Marylebone has been identified by multiple affiants as a heretic and as a witch, and the testimony of the witnesses was confirmed by way of detailed depositions. However, the accused has thus far resisted all attempts to obtain her confession. In fact, she's already burned through two other inquisitors who, despite having the full complement of inquisitorial tools at their disposal, managed to obtain nothing in the way of useful information from this woman, never mind a confession. So, I'm left with little choice in this matter. She must either confess and repent or face punishment for her transgressions."

"It sounds simple enough," Booth remarked casually with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "I'll leave within the hour."

"Good," Pole said with a firm nod. "Good. Proceed with caution...and a word of advice, Father."

"Yes, Your Eminence?" Booth replied.

"This one is clever, Father," Pole said thoughtfully. "She's _very _clever, and _very _stubborn. None of the other inquisitors in London have proven up to task of handling her thus far, but I'm sure you'll do whatever you have to do to get a desirable outcome—that's why I want you to take over the case."

"Yes, Your Eminence," Booth said, a cocky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he struggled to contain his excitement at receiving such a promotion. "I think that I've heard one of the others speaking of this case while at supper the other day. Hmmm..." He narrowed his eyes and snapped his fingers as he tried to remember. "What's that midwife's name again?" he asked.

Pole answered, "Mistress Temperance Brennan."

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><p><strong>AN: **_So that's how it begins._

_Have we piqued your interest? _

_This piece will have ten or so chapters, and will be followed by a sequel. You'll see Booth and Brennan like you've never quite seen them before (though they should be recognizable, even in these unusual alter egos), as well as a number of your other favorite Bones characters. All of it set in the summer of 1558. _

_But, before we zing that one up, tell us what you think so far, so we know whether we should bother with posting the other nine chapters of this piece (and whether we should finish writing the sequel or just quit while we're ahead). The next chapter ("The Accused") is written and ready to go. This piece, more than any other piece we've ever written, is one where we need to know what you folks think, seeing how far off the beaten path we've journeyed to bring it to you._

_So, do take the time to leave us a review. Go ahead and click that wee review button down there. Oh, please. Don't be coy. You know the one. Yes, darlings, that one right there._

_Thanks._


	2. The Accused

**The Inquisitor**

**By:** dharmamonkey & Lesera128

**Rated: **M

**Disclaimer: **_So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox via adverse possession. ::blinks:: Okay, not really. But, you get the gist._

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><p><strong>Summary: <strong>_England. 1558. Father Seeley Booth, a Black Friar of the Dominican Order, is appointed local inquisitor during the reign of Mary I in her attempt to purge heretics from her realm. The midwife Temperance Brennan, the daughter of a London apothecary, is arrested and brought before the local tribunal. What happens when Booth interrogates Brennan in an attempt to get her to confess? Very, very AU and, eventually, very M._

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><p><strong>AN: **_So, the saga of our favorite dynamic duo continues. You've met Father Seeley Booth, London's newest inquisitor. Now it's time to meet the accused._

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: The Accused<strong>

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><p>It was late in the morning when Father Seeley Booth, O.P., called for the guards to bring in the accused. He was eager to begin his first day of work on the case that Cardinal Reginald de la Pole, Archbishop of Canterbury, had sent him to investigate within the precincts of London.<p>

He'd slept well the night before, and had shared a hearty breakfast—poached eggs, pungent brown bread, and soft white cheese washed down by a tankard of Cornish cider—with the Dominican brothers who'd welcomed him into their midsts when he arrived at the house in Westminster where the accused had been imprisoned since late March. It was thus that Booth was full of an excited energy that he wanted to use to quickly but carefully resolve the case with an outcome that was both just and pleasing to Cardinal Pole. He had thought carefully about how best to begin the proceedings. Only one tiny detail—the way in which he'd actually begin her interrogation—remained to be decided. All in all, several potential ideas had come to Booth, and he'd rejected them all on the basis that this woman seemed to be as wily and as extraordinary as everyone—from Cardinal Pole to the house's cook and servants—said her to be.

Eventually, a visit to the kitchens to thank the cook for such a delicious breakfast had finally solved Booth's conundrum, and he'd been quite pleased when the idea of how to begin questioning her had finally surfaced. He wished to make a distinct impression, establish his authority, and take his own personal measure of the accused all in one fell swoop—no easy thing to do with a subject that was so much less than the type of person the accused was reputed to be. A few minutes after he'd called the guards to bring the prisoner to him, a shuffling in the hall and the distinct clank of chains heralded her arrival.

The first time he saw her, he wasn't really impressed.

As they brought her into the room, Booth felt a crest of disappointment as he took in the sight of her. She was a thin wisp of a woman. She was tall, true, but bony with sharp angles making her seem much older than he knew her to be. Dressed all in black, she wore a scowl on her nondescript face, and radiated pure hostility and disrespect at everyone upon whom she happened to look.

At first glance, she appeared to be just another woman in a long line of women that he'd seen the Holy Inquisition investigate in the five years since England had been welcomed back to the bosom of the Holy Mother Church after Queen Mary's ascension to the throne upon the unexpected death of her heretic brother Edward in July 1553. He'd studied the evidence given against the accused in the case at bar, read the second-hand and third-party accounts of the circumstances that had brought her before him on this sweltering day in early May, and, all in all, he expected this one to proceed much as the other cases had.

Once the guards had brought Brennan into the interrogation room, guiding her chained, shackled person to the single chair that sat approximately three feet in front of his desk, he nodded at them to allow her to sit. He adjusted the cowl of his black wool cloak, revealing his face to her for the first time.

After she'd sat down, and could see him, a subtle change in Brennan's demeanor took hold. She leveled a direct gaze at him that caused him to pause slightly. A startling pair of offended and clearly annoyed pale colored eyes stared at him while the rest of her face remained calm, neutral, and rigidly impassive. In fact, he doubted whether the heated passion flickering deep behind her eyes would've been discernible to most people if they hadn't watched the way in which she'd entered the room or had looked at deeply into her eyes as he had done. But, he wasn't most people. As he studied her personage and body language, for the first time, Booth realized that perhaps she was more interesting than he'd originally thought. Even after six weeks of imprisonment, her eyes were clear and her back straight. It seemed that she hadn't been broken by the process, which he had seen break so many others, men and women alike. _What kind of woman is this, _he thought, _who can look me in the eye this way?_

For her part, after the friar lowered his hood, and she clearly could take measure of the pair of chocolate brown eyes staring at her, she waited expectantly for him to speak so that they might begin the same dance routine that she'd been through countless times over the past six weeks with two other, similarly black-robed inquisitors. However, this one, unlike the others, seemed content to study her as she sat in her chair in front of him, and not a word passed between them for several minutes. Knowing that silence was actually preferable to her than answering the same set of questions and making the same set of statements she felt like she'd already done a thousand times, Brennan was quite happy to merely stare back at the new face that greeted her without doing anything more.

Eventually, Booth folded his hands in front of him and tilted his head as he cleared his throat. He leveled his gaze at her and then asked in a calm and measured voice, "Mistress?"

"Yes?" she answered, wondering what trite question he would chose to begin with as the others had.

_If he's as pedantic as the rest, _she thought, _he'll probably be completely and utterly predictably boring and just begin with the standard favorite 'why don't you just confess your sins?' _

Booth narrowed his eyes as he continued to look at her and then asked the question he'd planned once inspiration had struck him that morning in the kitchen. "If you could have any dessert that you wanted baked especially for you to eat with this evening's meal, what would it be?" he asked.

Brennan stared at him for a moment, her mouth opening into a small o-shape, as his question clearly had not been the one she was expecting. _What? _she thought. He continued to stare expectantly, and Brennan wondered if perhaps she'd misheard him. _What did he say?_

To be on the safe side, she asked, "Pardon me? Can you repeat your question?"

"I asked," Booth repeated without any hesitation as he spoke firmly. "If you could have any dessert made for you tonight to eat with your dinner when it arrives in your cell, merely because the dessert is your favorite, what would it be?"

_Hmmmm_, Brennan thought as she arched an eyebrow at him and considered his question. _Hmmm...so I didn't mishear him, after all. Interesting. Very interesting._

Swallowing once, after another moment, Brennan finally answered, "A walnut tart."

Booth's eyes narrowed again as he clarified, "With confectioner's sugar or without?"

"With," she replied instantly.

Booth considered her words and then nodded, more to himself than for her benefit. "Very well." He then placed his hands on his desk, pushed himself up from where he sat. "We're finished for this morning."

"That's _it_?" Brennan asked, her surprise growing. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," Booth said with a nod. He then pounded on table with the side of his closed fist and signaled that the guards should reenter the room. As they did, he nodded at them and said, "You may take the prisoner back to her cell. We're done for now."

Booth didn't bother to look at the clearly surprised expression that remained etched on Brennan's face as the guards moved to take her back to her cell. He merely pulled a piece of vellum towards him and began to scribble notes as she left the room in silence.

And that was how Mistress Temperance Brennan met Father Seeley Booth for the very first time.

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><p>Brennan was brought back into the interrogation room sometime after sext, the midday prayers. After the guards shoved her roughly into her seat, she sat up stiffly in the straight-backed armless wooden chair. She stared straight ahead, her neck straight and proud, her eyes meeting Booth's as she looked directly at him and refusing to be kowtowed by his piercing gaze. As he had that morning, he allowed several minutes to pass in complete silence before saying a single word to her. Now that he felt he had some measure of Brennan, Booth believed he could allow the interrogation to proceed as it normally would.<p>

_This should be short, simple, and to the point_, he thought pleasantly. _Perhaps, if all goes well, I can even obtain her confession before Vespers and have my final report to His Eminence before he breaks his fast on the morrow._

"The accused will state her name," Booth said monotonously, his gaze fixed on the leatherbound folio in front of him, the _Decretum Gratiani_, otherwise known as the _Concordantia discordantium canonum_, a compendium of canon law first collected into a single work by a 12th century jurist named Gratian.

As she took in his words, Brennan stared at him for a moment, and then deigned to provide him with some type of response. "You know my name," Brennan responded, narrowing one eye but otherwise giving no indication other than her verbal response that she regarded him as worth a morsel of her attention whatsoever.

Booth arched an eyebrow and shrugged, reaching out and slowly turning a page in the thick tome in front of him. For a couple of more minutes, he read, his lips moving as he kept his place in the dense Latin legal text with his index finger.

"You're Mistress Temperance Brennan," he said, casually looking up from his book, cocking his head to one side, smirking as he awaited her response. "A freewoman of the parish of Marylebone, having been born to Master Matthew and Mistress Christine Brennan in the year of Our Lord 1533 and baptized in the church of St. Mary-le-Bow seven weeks after your birth."

"See?" Brennan said, her voice clear and her gaze hard as their eyes met once more. "You already know the answer to the question that you've asked, and probably know more about the vital details of my life than I do. So, the question I have is why do you insist on such nonsense? You waste only your own time, Brother."

Booth laughed, briefly considering correcting her use of a friar's title when he, in fact, was an ordained priest. However, he decided he did not want to give her the pleasure of such a retort knowing in his wisdom that it was better to let such slights dissipate on the breeze as opposed to letting them take on more shape and form than they merited in the struggle he knew she perceived to exist between them. "I have all the time in the world, Mistress Brennan," he said quite casually. "Yours is the only case I am working at the moment. I have no pressing engagement or other appointments, other than attending prayers at the designated hours. My sleeping quarters are just down the hall. I am, therefore, in no real hurry as to how my day shall progress—either today or tomorrow or any other day until the matter set before us is done. So, to use your own words, perhaps the bigger issue is what type of hurry are _you _in...and why?"

At his words, Brennan let off a sharp bark of laughter. "I've been warming the bed in a prison cell for the better part of the last six weeks," she said grimly, her jaw hard as she glared at him. "My days have been spent staring at the wall of my cell, interrupted from time to time by insipid interrogation sessions such as this one which have been interspersed with rather mediocre meals."

"You don't like our cook here?" Booth suddenly interjected. "Because I find I rather enjoyed my breakfast this morning."

"Then, you, clearly, Brother, don't have any true notion of what decent food and drink are supposed to taste like," she said simply. "Now, that being said, to address your prior point...like you, I suppose, I have all the time in the world since I'm a 'guest' of the Inquisition. So, that leaves us where precisely, Brother?"

"Well," Booth said with a wry grin. "I suppose it means we have at least one thing in common since we're both clearly in no hurry here." He then tilted his head as he added, "I'm glad we have managed to establish a rapport so quickly."

Brennan snorted at Booth's statement, but didn't immediately reply. After some time, she shook her head and asked, "Is that important to you, Brother? That is, establishing a rapport with me?"

"Hmmm," he murmured, nibbling the inside of his lip as he considered her question. "Well, of course," he answered. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together over the next span of days or weeks—how much, and how long, to be honest, really being a matter more within your control than mine—but it seems that if we find some sort of common ground between us, something that we share that can form a basis for us to have more meaningful discussions going forward, it will be better for all parties involved, don't you think?"

"Hardly," she snickered. "You make this sound like a courtship, Brother, and I can assure you, in no uncertain terms, that you're not really the sort of man I'd consider for that kind of, well, social...or physical...exercise. So, with you trying to cozy up to me this way—it's really a waste of your time, energy, and efforts."

"Hmmmm," Booth said, a vague sarcasm darkening the edge of his voice. "That's a pity, then, if what you say is true."

"If you want to discuss something useful," Brennan said, biting each of her words. "Why don't you tell me why I'm here? Because, as I've told you, I've been warming the inside of my humble prison cell for the better part of six weeks, during which time I've been able to make the acquaintance of two—now three—papist inquisitors, including yourself, none of whom have seen fit to tell me why in God's name I'm being held, on what charge I'm being tried, or on whose word those unnamed charges have been brought against me."

"Well," he began simply. "I can answer that question simply enough. The reason why you haven't been told that information is because that's not how this works. Or, if you prefer, it's information that's disseminated on a need-to-know basis only, and you, Mistress don't need to know as yet...if at all," he said.

"Well," Brennan growled. "Maybe you can see fit to tell me how this works, then. You see, Brother, though you may've spent too much time inside monasteries and university lectoria, perhaps you've not heard that several hundred years ago, we here in England were graced with something called the _Magna Carta, _which entitles free men and women such as myself the right to know the charges laid against us and to have those charges tried by a jury of one's peers. This is nonsense. If the charges against me have any merit, then there should be no reason I should not be informed of them, that I might freely answer to the truth or falsity of them."

Her short rant finished, she took a breath and smiled, rather pleased with herself. Her satisfaction was short-lived, however, as Booth stood up from his seat and walked around to the front of his table.

"You needn't lecture me about the common law, Mistress," he said with a laugh. "Because, unlike the other two of my brethren whom you've met in prior weeks, I'm an Englishman, so I know all about King John and the events at Runnymede in 1215. Furthermore, I'm a lawyer. Though I read canon law, not the common law, I know enough of the law of the land—the law of my own country—to understand the rights assured to freemen and freewomen thereunder."

Booth paused and smirked, his brown eyes shining with scarcely-suppressed laughter.

"So, while I thank you, Mistress Brennan, for that lovely and reasonably accurate exposition of the common law, it's—well, to be quite frank—absolutely unnecessary and as much a waste of our time as my earlier question was to you because this action proceeds under canon law, not under common law. The document you refer to is intended as a limitation on the power of the sovereign against freemen and the barony. It's wholly irrelevant in this context...and not just because you're a woman. You've been accused of acts against God and His Holy Church and against nature, not against the sovereign. But I'm glad to know what you are a well-informed freewoman. Hopefully, as we move forward here and can put certain matters behind us, we can address such matters in a way that leaves you free to carry on your life as a valued and devout freewoman in your home parish."

Brennan shook her head and turned away, rolling her eyes as she tried to gather her roiling thoughts into some semblance of order.

"So, you're _not_ going to tell me who has laid accusations against me?"

Booth shrugged. "No," he said simply. "That won't be happening anytime soon."

"So, what—you would have me guess, then?" she asked with her eyebrow cocked at him in frustrated exasperation.

"That's for you to decide," he said. "As a matter of procedure, I simply cannot offer up to you the identities of those upon whose depositions these charges are brought."

"These charges which you will also not disclose to me," she muttered, her annoyance at his impassibility growing with each word he spoke.

"That is correct."

Brennan sat back in her chair, shifting her hands to relieve the pressure the shackles placed on the bones of her wrists. She stared at her latest inquisitor for several minutes, mentally thumbing through a list of names and faces of the people with whom she had transacted business, formally or otherwise, over the prior year in a bit of thinking she'd yet to do in all of her previous interrogations—if for no other reason than none of them had actually moved beyond posturing and religious insults to even begin to address the heart of the matter concerning her case and the charges that had been laid against her. A smile eventually spread across her lips as realization dawned on her, and she narrowed her eyes at him as she shared the epiphany she'd just had.

"It's Michael Stires, isn't it?" she said, quietly at first. "Michael and Daisy Stires—it is they who've brought these accusations forward, is it not?"

Something flickered behind Booth's brown eyes revealing what his words did not—that Brennan had, in fact, guessed correctly. "Now why would they do that?" he eventually countered.

"So it _is_ they who did this to me?" she asked, her voice peaking as she narrowed her eyes at him and took his response as confirmation of her suspicions.

Booth simply stared at her, silent for several long moments, before drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. _Check, Mistress, _he thought, imagining for a moment that the floor beneath them was a chessboard and that the woman before him had just moved her queen within striking distance of his king. _This is absolutely not how this was supposed to go. But like most games of chess when I was foolish and temporarily lost sight of where I was, I just got checked because in my arrogance I underestimated my opponent and left my flank unattended. _Narrowing his eyes, he nibbled the inside of his lip. _That will not be happening again as this isn't a mistake I'll be making a second time. So enjoy your moment of victory, Mistress, because I can assure you that there won't be any checkmate._

"Hmmmm. I don't think I wish to discuss anything else at the moment. I think that's enough for one day, Mistress Brennan."

"We're done here? Really?" she asked, turning her head as he bellowed for the guards to come retrieve her. "What? Why?"

"Good day, Mistress," Booth said with a nod before he returned to his folio of vellum parchments. "Good day."

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><p><strong>AN: **_So, there you go. Michael Stires—married to Daisy? Whoa. How 'bout them apples? _

_You knew this piece would deliver some choice Booth and Brennan verbal skirmishing. __These two have only just begun to size each other up. In the next chapter, we learn a bit more about the inquisitor and the accused, and the verbal swordplay continues._

_We said this before, but this piece is way, WAY different than anything either of us have ever done, and we really, REALLY need to know what you people think of this piece thus far._

_So, do take the time to leave us a review. Go ahead and click that wee review button down there. Oh, please. Don't be coy. You know the one. Yes, darlings, that one right there._

_Thanks._


	3. Gossip

**The Inquisitor**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128

**Rated: **M

**Disclaimer: **_So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox via adverse possession. ::blinks:: Okay, not really. But, you get the gist._

* * *

><p><strong>Summary: <strong>England. 1558. Father Seeley Booth, a Black Friar of the Dominican Order, is appointed local inquisitor during the reign of Mary I in her attempt to purge heretics from her realm. The midwife Temperance Brennan, the daughter of a London apothecary, is arrested and brought before the local tribunal. What happens when Booth interrogates Brennan in an attempt to get her to confess? Very, very AU and, eventually, very M.

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><p><strong>AN: **_You've met the inquisitor, Father Seeley Booth, and the accused witch and heretic, Temperance Brennan. Now it's time to learn a bit more about them both. And what better way than through a little bit of idle gossip? _

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: Gossip<strong>

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><p>Mistress Temperance Brennan sat on the floor of her cell, her back aching slightly as she leaned against the wooden wall that had served as one-fourth of her jail for the past six weeks. She supposed she should be grateful that her cell had a small window, for at least she could tell the passage of time from the way the sun's rays would cascade (or not) through her small window on the larger world. After she returned from her latest visit with one of the Black Friars' newly imported church personnel, she couldn't help but think about how the interview had proceeded. Unlike many of the previous interrogations that she'd spent telling those who questioned her the exact same thing as she had at least two dozen times already during the weeks in which she'd been imprisoned, this particular interview had gone a bit differently.<p>

_He's intelligent_, she thought. _I'll give him that much. He's very intelligent, and very, __very__ sure of himself. But, unlike the other idiots they've used to try to get me to break, this one is smart enough that his arrogance is somewhat backed up by his skill level. That makes him dangerous...very dangerous. And, moreover, that means he needs to be watched. Closely...very closely. Hmmm..._

As she replayed the words she'd exchanged with the young friar in her mind over and over again—with notions from walnut tarts with confectioner's sugar to Runnymede to Thomas Aquinas bouncing in her head—she hadn't realized how much time had actually passed until she heard the scraping of her door's locks and the removal of the wooden bar that stood sentry over the portal. She watched with interest when she saw the door open and a familiar figure came scurrying into the room.

She didn't know that much about the young servant girl that carried her meager evening meal into her cell and waited for her to finish eating it. Being two of the only women of close to the same age in the entire priory, Brennan guessed that the serving wench was lonely and that was why the seemingly natural extrovert continued to seek her out inasmuch as their situation allowed. So, during the weeks of her incarceration, she'd come to welcome the non-hostile human contact obtained from her social interaction with the girl she'd come to know only as Angela. As the weeks had passed, one of the things Brennan had come to appreciate about Angela was how optimistic the willowy, dark-haired and dark-eyed girl could be—particularly in light of where she lived and the work she did in their very drab and very gloomy surroundings. The second thing Brennan had come to marvel at the girl was her innate capacity to possess and to disseminate all types of gossip and rumor.

As Angela set the wooden tray on the rickety table that stood in a corner, she refrained from making a face at the basic quality of one of the few pieces of furniture in the cell. She noted, with a slight bit of satisfaction, that Brennan's cell was of a higher quality than it had been when she first arrived almost two months before, but it still left much to be desired. A warm glow lit up the room as the small tallow candle on the tray brought more illumination to the cell than the fading rays of the setting sun offered through the small window set high on the cell's wall. Turning around, she then quickly walked towards Brennan and extended her hands as she helped get the other woman to her feet.

"Up and up, Mistress Temperance," Angela said with a smile. "Why you insist on sitting on the cold stone floor like that when your father's gone to all this trouble to pay extra for better accommodations than most 'guests' that come here, I don't know, but I can't have you eating your supper from the floor, so up you go."

Brennan felt pinpricks in her wobbly legs as she allowed Angela to pull her upright with no more than a small grunt from the smaller woman at her physical efforts. Shaking first one foot and then the other, Brennan looked up at Angela and then shrugged before she spoke. After a moment, she said, "I do sit on the chair and the bed." Brennan gestured to the simple wood chair and the rather plain raised platform that served as her sleeping space. "But, I like to move around, so I sometimes end up on the floor with my back against the wall to vary the pattern of the rotation."

"All well and good, I suppose, if it helps you pass the time," Angela said with an eventual shrug. She stopped and then tilted her head as she said, "You do know, don't you, that you're very lucky that you haven't been moved to the priory at Dartford like I'd heard they might move you?"

Slowly, Brennan nodded as she kept herself from shivering at the thought of the far away religious house in the English countryside.

"Yes, it's a good thing you haven't moved yet," Angela mused. "Because I doubt your father's money could get you such luxuries as you have here—although I do know it's ironic that I'm describing what accommodations you have here as luxurious given how spartan they may seem—but I don't think I'm that far off the mark when I say that if he was trying to bribe the Prioress Elizabeth Cressener of St. Dominic of Langley Regis, he'd failed quite badly. It's said she's a hard woman...and so are her sisters. They don't suffer fools or offer mercy to those they deem guilty of offensive sins."

"I know that," Brennan nodded, knowing that what Angela was telling her was nothing she hadn't already considered herself as she'd contemplated when she'd be moved out of the capital and to the Prioress Elizabeth's domain at Dartford. The journey wasn't so far away—it was just a mere sixteen miles into Kent once travelers left the environs of London. However, as far as Brennan was concerned, the sixteen miles that separated her cell in Westminster from the Dominican nunnery—one that was known to be patronized by none other than Cardinal Reginald de la Pole, Archbishop of Canterbury, first-cousin, and one-time suitor to none other than Her Majesty, Queen Mary, herself—might've been sixteen hundred miles. Brennan didn't scare easily, but she knew if she left the capital, the chances of her leaving the custody of the Holy Inquisition were slim-to-none. "And, I'm grateful that it hasn't happened yet. Do you think they'll still send me there?"

"I don't know, Mistress," Angela told her. "I honestly haven't heard anything on the subject one way or the other, so I can't say."

"I'm somewhat surprised," Brennan told her honestly. "I thought after I frustrated the last pair of inquisitors that I'd be sent away from here to a place where they might be able to employ more...stringent methods of persuasion to obtain the confession that they say they want from me." She stopped and then shook her head slightly. "I don't know why I'm still here and that's quite frustrating."

Angela watched her for a minute and then smiled sympathetically. "Well, we both know that's the only confession you've made today since you're still here," Angela said cheekily, "Perhaps you need to eat this delectable feast that I've brought for you before its already lukewarm temperature goes completely cold and it goes from slightly unpalatable to completely inedible, hmmm?"

With a grateful twitch of her nose, Brennan nodded as she smelled the vegetable stew that apparently was on the menu for her evening's repast. Moving towards the chair, she pulled it out, sat down, and reached for the hunk of plain brown bread that set next to the bowl of stew. A rather pleasing-looking apple sat next to the bread while a small cup of what Brennan knew contained ale completed the simple fare that awaited her.

Tearing off a piece of the bread, Brennan chewed it thoughtfully and swallowed before she looked at Angela and said, "The one I saw today was new."

"Oh?" Angela asked, her ears perking up as she sensed new gossip might be hers for the taking, as she watched Brennan eat. "And, which one was that?"

"I don't know," Brennan said, as she took the bread and tore off another piece. This time she dipped it into her stew, soaking the rye bread into the salty broth, before she popped it into her mouth. "I've never seen him before...he's English, though...unlike the others. His accent isn't from London...I can't really place where it's from—somewhere in the south maybe. And, he's young. Very young."

A knowing look came over Angela's face as comprehension dawned. "Oh, that can only be one person."

"Oh?" Brennan asked.

Angela nodded. "Young, you said?"

This time it was Brennan's turn to nod in the affirmative.

"And, how old do you think?"

"In his twenties, I'd say," Brennan said as she thought of what she'd seen of the man during their two interviews. "I don't see how he could be older than thirty. He had dark hair and dark eyes...and a humorously arrogant bearing. He's intelligent, but extremely cocky."

"Well, I can't say for certain," Angela chuckled. "But it sounds as if you've met Father Seeley."

"Oh?" Brennan asked again. "And, why do you say that?"

"There's only one man of that age group that is as smart and as self-assured as you say," Angela laughed. "The cook and I have been talking about him since he showed up here the day before yesterday. He's most definitely a handsome one. And, you're right. He's smart and funny and quite charming. He made it a point to come to the kitchen this morning to compliment the cook on the breakfast she served this morning—"

"Then, he either has very low culinary standards, or you've been holding out on me and I'm not eating the same thing he is," Brennan observed drolly.

Angela rolled her eyes slightly as she continued. "—and, anyway, the cook and I agreed...if he weren't a man of God, well...we both wouldn't mind seeing how much of a stud he could be. Don't you just wonder what he looks like under those robes of his? I mean, just thinking about those broad shoulders of his is enough to set my pulse racing. It's obvious he does something to help keep his athletic form. The cook damn near swooned when he kissed her hand this morning before he left. So, after I helped pick her up off the floor, Bernadette and I decided that if any man had a right to wear a codpiece with the word 'cocky' emblazoned on it and not be accused of bearing false witness, it would be Father Seeley."

Brennan's lips thinned as she recalled the tall form of the new inquisitor that had taken over her case. _For a man of God, it's true, he must do something besides flapping his gums if he can maintain his form_, Brennan thought. _But, Angela's a fool if she only looks at him and sees a square jaw, an intense set of eyes, and a broad set of shoulders. He's a dangerous man...very dangerous. And, I won't let any physical attractiveness cause me to underestimate him._

Angela saw Brennan frowning and couldn't help herself as she arched and eyebrow and asked, "What?"

"It's just that I really hate it when you do that," Brennan said with a sigh. "He's not regular clergy. It's inappropriate for you to refer to him as 'Father' since he's not a priest. He's a friar. As such, the appropriate title for him to be referred to as is 'Brother.' By calling him 'Father'...well, it just strokes his already incredibly large ego and gives him more credit than he's due."

"Well, normally, you'd be right," Angela said with an unusual thoughtfulness in her voice after a moment as she realized the annoyance that had crept into Brennan's normally stolid voice. _He's gotten to her already, hmmm? Interesting...not even a day, and he's already annoying her_, Angela thought as she realized that in all the weeks she'd been getting to know the widowed midwife, she'd never seen this strong an emotional reaction from Brennan about anything—or anyone. _So, if he's doing this to her after just a day...I wonder what he'll do after he's been seeing her for a week...and more importantly...and more interestingly, what __she__ might be doing to __him_. _Hmmm. _"But, so the rumor goes that he'd already taken his holy vows and was ordained as a priest when his home diocese decided he was smart enough to do quite well in the curia."

"So, you're saying he's not just a simple friar?" Brennan questioned her sharply.

"Well," Angela responded, Brennan's response to the new inquisitor making her extremely curious. "He's many things...but, I definitely say he's neither just simple...or a friar." She stopped and then decided to see if she might get something specific out of Brennan. "Why? You aren't...curious about him, are you?"

"No," Brennan snapped, causing the serving girl to swallow a large smile that the sharp tone of the midwife's response made her want to give. "I don't care about him at all. He's just another one of _them_, after all, Angela."

"Hmmm," Angela mused. "So you say."

"I do," Brennan nodded. "I do say."

"Then, you also wouldn't be caring that he was sent abroad to learn the law, and that's when he studied at Padua and eventually met Cardinal Pole. At some point, they became close, and I believe that it was Cardinal Pole who helped inspire him to join the Dominican order. But, nonetheless, he still took his vows as a priest, so he's a 'father' right and good even if the Cardinal took a liking to the young friar, as it's said he did. And, in case you're wondering," Angela, ever a veritable font of information on a myriad of subjects, "It was Cardinal Pole who was able to get His Holiness, Pope Paul, to grant a dispensation for Father Seeley to take up his post as an inquisitor here even though he's only just turned thirty."

"I don't understand," Brennan said, a question furrowing her brow. "What does that—?"

"Since the Council of Vienne, canon law says a man can't be appointed Inquisitor unless he's reached the age of forty," Angela explained simply. Brennan's brow furrowed as she pushed aside a voice in her head that wondered how exactly a simple serving wench could know _that _particularly convenient piece of information. "It's not unheard of for dispensations to be granted, but apparently Father Seeley's mind was so keen in his legal studies at the University of Padua that he impressed Cardinal Pole enough so that His Eminence sort of took him under his wing." She stopped and then leveled a stare at her as she added, "Word is that his he's been entrusted with your case as some type of test to see if he merits that faith that Pole's put in the man that many view as the cardinal's pet project and protege."

"Which is why, even though he's English, he's been appointed to a position like this under the Queen's latest wave of persecutions," Brennan said thoughtfully, more to herself as she reasoned out loud than for Angela's benefit. "Because we both know it's been nothing but wave after wave of Spanish or Italian foreigners for years since she married that dark devil from her mother's homeland."

Brennan almost didn't notice the pained look that crossed Angela's face until the younger woman drew Brennan's attention as she hastily put a finger to her lips and shushed her.

"The walls have ears, Mistress Temperance," Angela whispered, fearful terror suddenly twisting the young woman's pretty face Brennan had seen happen to so many others since Queen Mary had ascended the throne five years earlier. "Please—don't...don't say anything that will get you in further trouble. Since I know you refuse to repent because doing so would mean implicating your father—since we both know he's whom the tribunal is really after—and since there's already so much evidence against you in your statements of support for the Church of England, just...please." Angela, who'd come to feel a real affinity for the midwife during the weeks of her incarceration, often feared that Brennan's sharp mind and sharp tongue would see her meet an unfortunate end if she wasn't more careful. "Please, Mistress—don't get yourself into any more trouble than you already have in doing what you've done to protect your family and shield your father—especially not with anything that might push you over the line of being suspected of more than just heresy...because treason is something they're not as forgiving about here, believe you me."

Brennan considered her words as she finished the stew. Angela's pleading soft brown eyes, so full of empathy and concern for Brennan, touched her. At last, she slowly nodded her head. Relief flooded Angela's face, and Brennan knew her answer was worth it if it brought the serving wench some relief even if it might turn out to be a lie.

The pair remained in silence for a moment before Brennan finished eating, drained what was left of her ale, and then nodded her thanks at the serving girl.

"My thanks, Angela," Brennan said with a nod as she considered the new information the kitchen servant had given her. "And, I'll be as careful as I can. On that you have my word."

"You promise?" Angela asked, as she lifted the tray and turned to walk towards the door. "Really?"

Again, Brennan nodded slowly. "Yes, I'll be careful...of that you can be sure. I'll be very careful, I promise."

"Especially where Father Seeley's concerned?" Angela asked, still unconvinced.

Something hardened in Brennan's eyes at the mention of the inquisitor. Her voice, however, remained quite firm as she said, "Oh, most definitely. You can have no doubts about my veracity when I say this whatsoever...with _him _I'll be more than careful. On that, I swear."

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><p><strong>AN: **_So...more familiar faces crop up, and we learn more about the mysterious man in the black robes—and more than a little about the accused. Seems like that priest is getting under her skin. Wonder if it's mutual. Hmmm. _::scratches head::

_Still intrigued? You know we've just started the verbal/mental skirmishing between Booth and Brennan, and that things are gonna heat up _::checks watch::_ pretty dang soon._

_Well, we said this before, but this piece is way, WAY different than anything either of us have ever done, and we really, REALLY need to know what you people think of this piece thus far._

_So, do take the time to leave us a review. Go ahead and click that wee review button down there. Oh, please. Don't be coy. You know the one. Yes, darlings, that one right there._

_Thanks._


	4. Strength and Patience

**The Inquisitor**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128

**Rated: **M

**Disclaimer: **So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox via adverse possession. ::blinks:: Okay, not really. But, you get the gist.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_We're happy you all are sticking with us and this very different sort of piece. If you're still reading, you know we've got a slightly different B&B in this piece, because all of the aspects of them that arise in the context of their lives in the late 20th and early 21st century have been pruned away, and instead we've tried to envision how these two personalities would develop and interact in the 16th century. So, the ladies of the _Dharmasera _writing cooperative _(**Lesera128 **_and _**dharmamonkey**) _thank you for your support. Your reviews and comments really mean a lot to us._

_So, without further ado, let's get back to the Inquisition._

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: Strength and Patience<strong>

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><p>The next day began much as the one before it had, and just like the long string of days that preceded it over the course of time that constituted the six weeks of Brennan's imprisonment. She wasn't really surprised, therefore, when she was told after she'd completed her breakfast that she'd be taken for another interrogation session that morning. A short while later, she found herself chained and shuffled through the maze of hallways that separated her cell from the interrogation room. After they pushed her quite unceremoniously through the door, she had to work very hard to suppress the indignant anger she felt flare at being so roughly treated by men who were so clearly inferior to her. She knew that she needed to have a clear mind and an unaffected countenance to be able to handle Father Seeley Booth.<p>

Since her enlightening discussion with Angela the day before, Brennan had decided that the last thing she was going to do was underestimate an intelligent man like Father Seeley―especially since she'd learned the man had the ear of Cardinal Reginald de la Pole himself. She would be cool, calm, and collected in her dealings with Booth. He wasn't going to gain any bit of information that she didn't want him to have, or find herself maneuvered into any position that she didn't want to be in.

_It's as simple as that_, Brennan thought. _Any anger or indignation or other strong emotions that I've felt because of what's happened to me can wait. For now, the only thing I feel is indifference...and that's the way it's going to stay._

It was with that mindset that Brennan forced herself to maintain a nondescript and impassive countenance once she was seated in the hard oak chair that she'd come to think of as hers over the past few weeks of her interrogations. She pursed her lips in a firm, straight line and leveled a hard stare in the direction of where her inquisitor sat, only focusing for a few seconds on the pang of annoyance she felt when he didn't immediately acknowledge her arrival with so much as a raise of his head or simple glance in her direction.

The room was warm—excessively so. Though it was only mid-morning, the air had already taken on a stuffy quality, smelling of dust, vellum, leather and, Brennan noted with a furrowed brow, male sweat. She wondered how long Booth had been in the room, hunched over his documents and folios, before she had been brought in by the guards.

_Not that it really matters, _she told herself. _It's just another day. I don't think today's going to be any different from any day that's come before it. So, all I need to do is keep putting one foot in front of the other, and this, too, shall pass—eventually—and I'll either prevail over this inane nonsense when my innocence is finally proven and they set me free...or I'll be found guilty and die, drowned or hanged or burned at the stake. _She stopped and studied Booth again for a minute and then thought with a wry smile on her face, _And, it all depends on this man_—_an annoying, albeit intelligent, arrogant, cocksure devil who reminds me of my father for some reason...although I can't quite put my finger on why. But, in either case, how's that for an ironic sense of luck? I'll either be saved or damned by a man who reminds me of my father only because they want to get me to get to my father. Huh._

She sat in the chair, staring at the top of Booth's head, for several long minutes before he finally looked up from his work and gave her any indication at all that he'd even realized she'd been brought into the room. In spite of Brennan's resolution to remain neutral, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The hard, flat seat pressed uncomfortably against the tuberosity of her ischia_—_the sitting bones, which she, noted with a vague, private smile, that came together to form the outer lateral boundary of the pelvic outlet, or what was also known as the birth canal—a certain part of the female anatomy that she had come to know by feel over the years_. _However, because her feet were shackled, her ability to find a comfortable sitting position was significantly hindered and so her back hurt her.

By the time Booth finally lifted his head to look at her, any pretense to remain calm and controlled had dissolved as her anger flared—as it often had as a child, despite her mother's numerous warnings to keep a tighter control on her temper than her father ever did—and her frustration became apparent. It was by no means the first time she had grown so frustrated so early in the course of such an interrogation session, but it was indeed the first time she had felt so angry without a single word having been spoken. Her anger increased tenfold when she realized that there was no way she'd be able to make good on her decision to remain in control of the situation by keeping her emotions in check if she was this unsettled when not even a word had been exchanged between the pair.

For his part, Booth seemed pleased to see her now that he was ready to deal with her...on his time and on his terms. He tilted his head as he smiled jovially at her.

"Good morning, Mistress Brennan," Booth greeted her, the optimistic tone of his voice grating on her already. She snorted softly in response at the ridiculousness of his demeanor. "I trust you slept well?"

"Oh, please," she muttered, as she rolled her eyes at him. "Enough with the niceties, Father."

The joviality faded away a bit as he narrowed his eyes as he considered her words. However, the good humor quickly transitioned into something else as he smirked at her. "Alright," he said. "If that's your preference."

"It is," came the simple response.

"Fine," he agreed. "So, we'll do things the hard way—" She snickered at his poor choice of words. He resisted the urge to respond to her on her immature and purile level. Instead, Booth merely continued speaking, "But, I have to tell you, Mistress. I don't understand why things need be so...hostile between us. I can't really believe that you'd prefer it if I were...what? What _are _you saying here? You don't want me to be pleasant? You'd rather I rail at you and spice up our discussion with insults, curses and a general lack of civility?"

"No," she muttered. "I-I...I just—" Brennan was slightly taken aback by his direct approach given how he'd been somewhat nefarious during the initial session and as well as the previous morning's interrogation.

_And, I have to admit that I'm still not quite certain what in the hell it was that he learned from the fact that my favorite confection is a Brown Sugar Walnut Tart glazed with Confectioner's Sugar_, Brennan thought, the annoyance she felt at not understanding what that particular piece of information had told him about her. _But, it's not like the Inquisition engenders such warm and positive feelings, Father, so it's not like you can hardly blame me for wishing to dispense with your disingenuously optimistic behavior. But, fine...if you want to persist in this charade...fine. We'll do it. But, I'm done letting you dictate things, so let's see if you can really keep up with me or not._

Taking a breath, Brennan attempted to turn the discussion back at him as she gave him a sly look. "Listen, is there a point to all of this, or are you just trying to stall for some more iniquitous reason?"

"Such as?" came his prompt reply.

"Oh, I don't know," Brennan said casually before she narrowed her eyes and told him, "Perhaps you want to stall for more time because you're not prepared for today's discussion for some reason? Did you not do your homework for some reason and found yourself woefully unprepared to deal with me when you realized what time it was? Because, if not, I can't quite tell what the point of this is. However, if you're not going to say or ask anything useful that will contribute to the dialogue between us, I think I'd rather go back to my cell and do something productive like staring at the same wall that I've been looking at for the past six weeks for hours on end before I hopefully doze off into a span of sleep that will help to make the time between now and dinner pass more quickly."

"Sleep, hmm?" Booth quickly asked. "Now, why would you need to go back to sleep when it's the middle of the day? Unless...perhaps...your guilty conscience is finally pricking at you, Mistress?"

_No, _Brennan immediately thought in retort. _It wasn't my guilty conscience that kept me up since I don't have anything to feel guilty about, but my conversation with Angela at dinner about you may have occupied my mind more than I would've liked_—_not that there's a snowball's chance in hell that I'd ever tell you that._

Booth took her silence as confirmation of his question.

_Well, _he thought, _perhaps it's a guilty conscience. Or perhaps something else is eating away at her_—_heaven knows what, though. She's doing a fair job holding herself together, I'll give her that much. This woman is so self-assured and sharp-tongued, it's almost breathtaking. _He shrugged in silent assent, then brought his eyes back to meet her hard stare directly.

"So you _didn't_ sleep well, then?" Booth asked her, the corners of his lips turning up in a smile as he watched her blink.

Brennan pursed her lips together and scowled at him.

_Fine, _she thought. _Let him believe what he wants. They always do, anyway, so it's not like I could say or do anything to change his mind if he's reached his own conclusion...no matter what the truth might actually be._

"_Touché_, Father," she finally responded with a tilt of her head, even though the reason she was conceding this point to him had nothing to do with a guilty conscience.

"_Parlez-vous français, madame?_" he asked her, tilting his head to the side with a casual grin tugging at his lips. He cocked his head slightly.

"_Non, vraiment,_" she replied with a sarcastic laugh and a small shake of her head. "_Seulment un peu. _Not enough to be useful for anything," she said with a small shrug of her shoulders.

_Well, that's interesting. French, huh? Then, she's no mere tradeswoman, this one. I could walk miles through the streets of London before finding a woman who could speak a peck of French. But this woman—well, a gentle, or not so gentle, reminder that I should never underestimate people. _Booth sat back in his chair and looked at the accused woman before him. "How does a woman like you learn any French at all?" he asked, the surprise he felt creeping into his demeanor at last.

"And, why does a man like you think I'm going to tell him?" she retorted sharply. "Furthermore, why do you care? What does any of this matter at all in the context of this inquisition? Is there something unnatural about a freewoman speaking a tiny bit of French? Surely you're not going to tell me that my knowledge of a handful of phrases in French is part of the acts against nature of which I've been accused."

"Umm, no," Booth snickered. "I'm simply trying to get a feel for your background as a woman, against which I can place the allegations_—_"

"Which you still haven't informed me of_—_" she interjected.

Booth ignored her interruption. "_..._in context." He fell silent, taking a slow breath and chuckling silently as he watched Brennan shift again in her seat. Narrowing his eyes, he pursed his lips and studied her movements. A frown briefly flashed across his face as he noted the red marks that criss-crossed her wrists, and he guessed that, were she to lift her skirts, he'd see similar bruises on her ankles. _I don't like that the Inquisition wounds these people for no purpose. This woman could be guilty or innocent, but treating her this way, roughly, letting the chains cut her, it's not right. It's not walking in the footsteps of Christ. _He pressed his lips together thoughtfully, trying to understand why he was reacting this way, to _this _woman's pain, when he had seen dozens upon dozens of similarly-shackled accused women since arriving in England. "I can call in the guards to unshackle you, if you wish," he said.

"That's not necessary," she told him with a sharp shake of her head. "Pray continue."

"Continue?" _What? _a voice echoed in his head. _Don't tell me that you think you're running things in here already, Mistress. Surely not even you can be that arrogant. _He threw his head back and laughed. "Whose interrogation is this, anyway, Mistress Brennan? Yours or mine?"

"You tell me," she replied, her pale eyes icy with disdain. "_Father_..."

Booth shrugged at her statement, threading his fingers through his hair—which was just long enough to permit such a gesture—and then looked down at his desk as he let her statement remain unanswered as he decided what to do next.

_Well, I can certainly see why she wore down the two brothers who'd been tasked with her inquisition_, he thought._ They weren't used to dealing with Englishwomen, to be sure. And this one—well, she's definitely no ordinary Englishwoman._

For a moment, he scanned the pile of vellum documents that lay arrayed in front of him, then he reached for his inkwell and quill, retrieving a blank sheet of vellum as he began to write.

_This woman is like an onion—sharp, strong, and multilayered. And, _he thought with a smile, _inclined to make a man cry if you don't handle her right. She needs to be handled like an onion—slowly and deliberately, one layer at a time. _

Another few minutes passed, the silence between them interrupted only by the intermittent scratching of Booth's pen, the occasional clearing of Brennan's throat, and, as the minutes drew longer, the metallic clank of her shackles as she again shifted her sitting position. Finally, a faint smirk flashing across Booth's lips as he judged that Brennan's patience had been sufficiently tried, he broke the silence with a question.

"When did you begin practicing midwifery?"

"In what sense?" she countered instantly, raising her glance to level her gaze at him.

Booth's brow creased at her query. "I think the question was put fairly clear before you, Mistress," he replied. "When did you first begin attending women in childbirth?"

Brennan inclined her head when she sensed no duplicity in his question and replied, "I was twelve years old when I accompanied my mother for the first time to attend a birth."

He nodded, scribbling a note. "So your mother was a midwife also then?" he inquired.

Brennan frowned. "Why ask me that question? I thought we took care of this issue yesteday. Why waste both our times with questions to which you already have an answer? You already knew that fact, Father," she snapped. "I have answered this same series of questions at least five times in the last six weeks. Surely your predecessors—while perhaps not as illustrious as you in their aptitude, learning, or training—must've kept some sort of notes of the results of their interrogations."

"Ah, you looked me up, huh?" he said with an arched eyebrow, unable to suppress a grin at hearing her speak, for the first time, favorably of him. "And, from your cell...in less than twelve hours," he said with a vague snicker. "Impressive, Mistress—most impressive."

She shrugged noncommittally. "You're not the only one with the ability to learn things about people, Father."

Booth pursed his lips thoughtfully and nodded. "So...you were twelve then when you attended your first birth?" Expecting no response, he added, "How old were you when you first attended a birth on your own? That is, just to be clear, acted to deliver a child without the assistance of another midwife..."

Brennan swallowed, then looked down and away for several moments before looking up again to answer. She prayed she hadn't paled a bit at his questions, but knew she probably had. Taking a moment to inhale and exhale slowly, as she pushed away images of blood and sounds of screaming that had haunted her for years in both her memories and her dreams, she finally whispered, "Fourteen."

Booth noted her response, wondering at the sudden shift in her emotions—indeed, the first emotion other than anger, surprise or frustration he'd seen from her since making her acquaintance. Rubbing his thumb under his chin, toying with the stubble there, he puzzled at why such an otherwise basic question could rattle her so strongly.

_Something happened there, _he told himself. _Something happened at that first birth. Something that wounded her, deeply_―_a wound that scarred her deeply and affects her even today. That experience fractured her somehow, but I'm not sure how or why. Interesting. _

Nodding to himself, he scrawled a quick note to himself to come back to that point later, then moved on with his questions. "So, you've been a midwife then, not counting the time you spent training at your mother's side, for how long?"

"I was, more or less, apprenticed to a master midwife for three years," she said, her tone of voice even and devoid of feeling as she looked away from him and took comfort in the facts that didn't bring images of blood and loss and pain and death straight to the forefront of her mind. "I've been a midwife on my own for seven, nearly eight years now."

"And all of your..." Booth made a face as he struggled for a word. "Patients?"

"Patients, clients," Brennan said with a shrug. "It doesn't really matter."

"Fine," Booth nodded at her. "Clients, then. Your clients...they've been women of...how shall we say...a more common birth here in the confines of the city of London?" he asked, resting his quill over the top of the inkwell as he awaited her answer.

"Most of them are gentry and trade families in the city proper," she replied. "But not all. In the last several years—say, the last five or six years—I've acquired a solid reputation for being an excellent midwife." She stopped and a true smile broke out on her face causing Booth to pause as she added with more than a touch of pride coming into her voice. "I've been told I'm the best in the south of England, if not all of the country."

Booth blinked at her unabashed expression of confidence, barely containing a snort at hearing what, had he observed such behavior in a man, he surely would have labeled 'arrogance.' _Well, well, _he noted with a silent smirk. "The best?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, raising her eyebrows as she waited to see if he would challenge her on that assertion. "I'm the best in my field. I would challenge you to find another, more skillful, knowledgeable, or talented midwife anywhere."

"Well," Booth said with a grin. "Seeing as how I'm not in need of a midwife, nor—given the nature of my avocation, do I anticipate ever being in need of one, I'll just have to take that under advisement, Mistress."

"Very well, Father," Brennan said with a slight shrug.

"Have you ever attended on a woman whose child died during the birth?" he asked, retrieving his quill once more and casually dipping the tip in ink as he waited for her answer.

Brennan's eyes darkened and her jaw tensed at the question. "Of course," she said grimly. "As have I attended on women who did not survive the birth. In some cases, neither mother nor child have emerged from the birthing bed alive. It happens. It's nature's way sometimes."

"Nature's way?" he asked, his brows flying up in surprise. "Don't you mean God's?"

"No," Brennan snapped. "I _don't_ mean God's. If I had meant that, I would've said that as, unlike some, I say what I mean, and I mean what I say." She raised her eyebrows, watching to see whether her firm response would make him blink. "So, tell me, Father," she said. "What purpose under Heaven does it serve that a child should come into this world but kill its mother in the process? Or, that a woman, having carried a child full term, should have that child die in the minutes, hours, days, or weeks―if she's luckier than most to have the luxury of having her babe live that long, which is more than most do―after it is born? Or to be dead upon birth? In what type of world does a perfectly-formed child never know the miracle of drawing its first breath in this world? For what purpose should God deign these things happen?" She drew a hard breath before she continued. "Explain it to me, Father, because I've never understood this part of the proverbial equation. Please, do―give me what explanation you can to help me wrap my head around this issue. What is the purpose in the suffering of the innocents? Why must they suffer? What is the purpose in that?"

"I'm sorry, Mistress, but I don't have an answer for you," Booth said after a moment.

"Figures," Brennan said bitterly. "You don't seem to have much of an aptitude for giving answers about anything now, do you, Father?"

"Ours is not to question His wisdom in these matters, but to trust that He has a higher purpose in all things," Booth said evenly. "Things happen as He wills it."

"What shite," Brennan spat, her lips curled and quivering in barely-restrained rage. "You, Father, have spent far too long in the monasteries and in the universities, and not nearly enough time working as a normal parish priest among the normal common people. If you had, you would have had occasion to give Last Rites to a woman dying of blood loss in the birthing bed." She stared at him hard, her nostrils flaring in fury as she pushed away the image of another time and place when an old man had intoned the hated Latin words over an inert woman who had bled to death in her bed. "Perhaps then you'd have had the scales removed from your eyes enough to see a tiny sliver of the suffering that exists out there in the real world."

"You don't believe that God's hand is in all things?" he asked her, his eyes narrowed with interest. _This woman, _he thought with a gentle shake of his head. _She's like no woman I have ever met. Who would speak this way, to a priest, in the middle of her own inquisition? She's more than clever enough to know that such words have laid her squarely within the bounds of punishable heresy. So why is she doing this? What game is she playing? And, _he added after a moment of thought, _how do I make sure I'm not playing draughts to her chess? Because I am not going to let this woman get the best of me_. _It's not happening...it's just not._

"I didn't say that," she replied defensively, a part of her remembering―despite the infuriating course that the interview had taken, that she was quite literally on trial for her life―that this man, as obnoxious as she found him, held her very life and future in the balance. "I merely stated a question: why must the innocent suffer? Why does God, who loves us, allow suffering to befall His children? I don't understand it. To be perfectly honest, I never have. Surely it is not heresy to struggle as I do with this question. Did not Jesus Christ Himself, in His passion, ask His father, 'Father, why hast Thou forsaken Me?'"

Brennan paused and stared at Booth as she awaited his answer. When he gave none, she continued.

"No, Father," she told him. "Since you seem unable to provide an answer to even that simple question, here's one for you. It's _not _heresy to struggle with suffering. It is, rather, the sign of a true Christian who thinks deeply on the individual threads of God's teaching, to ask questions such as these. This is how _my _church and _your _church differ, Father."

"_Your church_?" Booth managed to sputter, a bit of emotion coming into _his _voice for the first time. "Don't tell me, Mistress, that you're actually going to do something as stupid as committing heresy within the purview of your own Inquisitor."

"As I said, it's not heresy," Brennan responded. "In my church, each man and woman is allowed to read God's Holy Bible and think on it for him or herself, and by reading the words and struggling with their meaning, one arrives at a faith that is annealed, like steel or iron is strengthened by being heated in a furnace until it glows red-hot and then is quenched. A church which does not allow its parishioners to think and question what is taught...such beliefs are apt to shatter in the face of a real spiritual crisis—that is, in the face of real suffering."

Booth swallowed, unsure of what to say as Brennan's rant wound down. She'd said enough in the preceding minutes to fall well within the definition of heresy. But with a heretic, Booth's task was to show her the error of her ways and guide her back to the path of the true faith. What he needed to know—since there was little doubt that, well-reasoned or not, the beliefs she held close were heretical—was, were the accusations of witchcraft true or, as sometimes such things were, a lie uttered by a jealous or hateful neighbor?

He bit down on the inside of his lip, kneading it between his teeth as he pondered his next move in this game of verbal chess. _The others followed the rules, _he mused. _But in following the rules, they lost the match against her. His Eminence brought me in because he knew I knew how to bend the rules_—_or work as widely as possible within their constraints_—_in order to secure a favorable outcome for the Holy Church. Hmmmm..._

He nodded to himself, drummed his fingers on the table for a moment as he gathered his thoughts and then made his decision.

After another moment, he broke the silence between them as he asked simply, "Did Mistress Daisy Stires suffer?"

Brennan's head snapped up at his words. A hard lump formed in her throat, and she felt her heart begin to pound in her chest as she replayed the query in her mind.

"What kind of question is that, Father?" she asked. "What are you trying to suggest?"

"It's a simple question," Booth replied, as he set down his quill and folded his hands on top of the heavy oak table that served as his desk. "Tell me about Daisy Stires. You were her midwife, yes?"

Brennan sighed as the memories flashed before her mind's eye. "Yes," she admitted, after a moment. "I was. All three times."

Booth's brow knit in confusion as he glanced down at the deposition transcribed on the vellum in front of him. "_Three_ times?"

"She first came to me at fifteen, during her first pregnancy," Brennan explained. "The pregnancy proceeded relatively normally, and she carried the child to full term. Her labor was difficult, though, because she has a relatively narrow pelvic inlet and..." She noted the way Booth's face flushed, and she smirked. "I'm a midwife, Father. I make a living assisting women in giving birth to children. Children—unless they are born by way of caesarian section, which is performed only when the life of the mother is believed to be unsalvageable, since the procedure inevitably kills her—pass through the birth canal, which is otherwise known as the vagina."

Booth sighed. _God grant me strength, _he muttered inaudibly. _This woman has to be the most infuriating creature ever placed on God's good earth. _He felt his pulse race as he noted the crooked smile on her face. _She did this on purpose. She's trying to rock me off my foundation. She's trying to unwind me. I can see why Brother Antonio said he wanted to strangle her with his bare hands_—_though something tells me that if the good brother had attempted to lay a finger on her, she'd have broken his arm. Heh._

She watched Booth's ears turn red at her choice of vocabulary. She couldn't help but smile as she noticed his reaction and the discomfort she'd stoked in him. _How...adorable that you can be riled with a simple allusion to the physical body_, Brennan noted wrly. _I'll have to remember that one_.

"Come now, Father," Brennan said. "There's no need to be embarrassed here. Though you've never lain with a woman, surely the facts that I've outlined for you are no surprise."

"It is not," he ground out through gritted teeth as he shook off his discomfort and tried to resume an impassive face as he struggled to maintain control of the questioning. "So...what happened to this child, this first child of Daisy Stires?"

"The child eventually passed through the birth canal, although his mother labored for him for hours and hours upon end before it occurred." Brennan continued, "and even then, it took quite a bit of manual manipulation on my part to make it happen." She saw Booth look down at her hands. "But, all our efforts turned out to be for nought as the child died two days after his birth. As far as I can tell, though I am no surgeon, the child suffered a trauma to the brain passing through the narrowest part of Daisy's pelvis, and lost consciousness several hours after birth. The child, a boy, never thrived in any way. He never took to the nipple, never roused, and ultimately died in his sleep, in his cradle, before the sun set on his second day of life."

Booth's face blanched, and he looked away as he considered her words. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "It always saddens me to hear of the death of a child."

Brennan saw his reaction and blinked, surprised by the sudden flash of sympathetic emotion he displayed. _I-I...I never thought a man of the cloth would ever feel sorry for a woman, _she mused. _Never. You surprise me, Father. Hmmmm._

She took a deep breath and continued her story. "It was very sad," she agreed, her voice soft. "Both Daisy and her husband Michael were anguished at the loss of their newborn son. She came to me again a couple of months later, pregnant again, which puzzled me and saddened me a bit, but—"

"What?" he gasped, as he took the meaning of her words. "Why would you be saddened that this woman, after all that, was heavy with child again? This should be good news, both for her and for her husband—and, even if thinking only of your own self-interest as a tradeswoman, for you."

Rolling her eyes, Brennan said, "She was pregnant again not two months after a difficult birth, Father. Childbirth is a great strain on the body, and were it not a natural process, one would really consider it an unnatural trauma to the female body. That's why midwives recommend that a woman not return to her husband's bed until four to six weeks after giving birth. But, Daisy's husband, Michael, didn't listen to either her or me. He bedded her again less than two weeks after she gave birth." Brennan quite literally shuddered at the thought.

"Wait," Booth said, holding up his hand to interrupt her. "How do you know that?"

Brennan stared at him blankly as if the answer were obviously apparent. "I'm a midwife, Father. Women tell things like this to other women, especially other women who are their midwives." Booth still had a confused look on his face. Brennan sighed as she clarified, "Think of a midwife as a physician who tends only to women who are pregnant or have just given birth." She shook her head. "I'm sure, Father, I could tell you things I've been told by my women that would curl your toes. The point being, women confide in their midwives, and we keep that confidence. It enables us to give the best care to the women who seek our help."

Booth considered that for a minute and then picked up his quill again. Nodding once, he waited for her to continue. "So she became pregnant again?" he asked, scribbling notes as Brennan continued to talk.

"Yes," Brennan replied. "And this child, too, was carried full term, and Daisy went into her labor in the ninth month of gestation."

"And?" Booth prompted her.

"And the child, again a son, was born dead. The second delivery wasn't as bad as the first, as is usually the way of things. But, it didn't matter because the child was stillborn. He was almost perfect but for the fact that he never took his first breath in this world. He was..." Brennan's voice trailed off as she felt a knot of emotion in her throat as she recalled swaddling the dead child. But as she couldn't on the day she handed the dead child to his mother―because on that day Brennan knew she needed to be strong for Daisy―she allowed a few tears to prick at the edge of her eyes when she spoke again. "He was the very picture of an angel that adorns tombs in Westminster and St. Pauls, with skin as gray as granite and lips as blue as violets. But, by the time she birthed him, there was nothing I could have done―"

Her voice again trailed off as she verbalized the thoughts that she run over again and again in her mind as she tried to make sense of the tragedy.

"The child was thriving in the womb in the weeks prior to her labor, according to what Daisy told me later," Brennan said with a shake of her head. "We didn't know...in the weeks before she was delivered, that anything was wrong. I just...I didn't know, because fetuses are often most active at night, so when I see women doing my rounds during the day, the unborn child is often asleep—just like infants do after birth, the unborn child observes a sleep cycle—so it's not always possible to know when a fetus has died until..." Her voice trailed off and she shook her head again.

_She blames herself_, Booth thought sadly. _But, why? If she believes, as she has said, that this is nature's way, then why does her voice seem so heavy with guilt? If she did all she could, and she is the best midwife in the south of England, if not the whole realm, as she claims to be, then why does she carry this guilt in her heart? _He took a long breath and pursed his lips as he wondered how to proceed, not wanting to cause her undue pain but knowing he had to keep the inquiry moving forward.

"A second son, also dead," Booth eventually said gravely, making notes on his vellum and indicating with a soft jerk of his chin for her to continue.

A couple of minutes passed as Brennan composed herself. Eventually, she took a breath and steeled herself to continue. "Ten months ago," Brennan began again, "Daisy came to me again, pregnant again after a year of trying. But, this pregnancy wasn't like the others."

"Explain," Booth pressed her, his voice gentle as he focused on her eyes as intently as he did on her words.

"There were...that is, she had difficulties...complications, you see—spotting, or bleeding, in a larger quantity than we would expect to see in the first trimester of pregnancy—" Brennan tried to explain. "So, I did what I could and prescribed her some herbal preparations which would strengthen her body and help it better sustain the pregnancy. But—"

Brennan paused, sighing heavily as she stared at her shackled wrists.

"But what?" Booth asked, prodding her to continue in as even and smooth a tone as he could manage. "What happened?"

"She lost the child, in the latter part of the fifth month," Brennan said, her voice moist with emotion once more. "She miscarried the baby. Another son."

"Three pregnancies—all three of them sons?" Booth asked, in complete disbelief. "And all three of them ended in the death of the child?"

"Yes," Brennan affirmed quietly. "All of them. After the first, the loss of their son, the boy born alive, they comforted each other—Michael and Daisy did. After the second, the stillborn son, Michael seemed almost to pull away, leaving Daisy to lean heavily on me for comfort. And, after the third one last fall, the miscarriage that is, it seemed to finally tear them asunder—they blamed each other, I think."

"How so?" Booth asked, his furrowed brow evidencing his confusion.

"He blamed her for not taking good enough care of herself and the child," she explained simply. "Daisy blamed him for forcing her to bed too soon, before her body was ready. The miscarriage was severe, a violent assault on her frail body. She bled a great deal afterwards, and for days hovered between life and death herself with fever."

"So, who was right?" he asked, again setting his quill over the top of the inkwell as he considered the sad situation of the Stires. "I mean, whose fault is it that these things happened? In your opinion, that is."

Brennan shrugged. "As for the first birth," she said, "I think... neither. The first son died of a perinatal injury. His head was simply too big for the birth canal. He could not have survived the birth unless delivered by Caesarian section, which would surely have killed his mother. The better question to ask might be this: is Daisy's body physiologically suited to carry and deliver babies? I might say no, but to do so, in this world we live in where every man wants sons and a woman—a wife—who cannot give him sons is considered by many men as no good for a wife...well..." Brennan sighed heavily. "Daisy was, and is, under a lot of pressure from her husband to bear him a son. I suspect she will keep trying for children, though I suppose she will stray far away from me for her care the next time she becomes pregnant, to the extent that she or Michael may blame me for the outcome of her three pregnancies. As for the subsequent pregnancies—the stillbirth and the miscarriage—it's impossible to know why these babies did not make it full term. Impossible. So, to answer your question, if blame could be laid for the tragedy of the loss of their children, the honest answer I have is that I wouldn't know where to lay it."

"Perhaps that is what is most frustrating for them," Booth observed, his voice low and warm. "Because people naturally want to know why things happen."

"I imagine so," Brennan agreed. "But I don't understand why they would then lay accusations at me when..." Her words trailed off as her voice broke, and she shook her head, turning away to conceal the tears that welled up in her eyes. "Though I suppose, in a way of thinking, some may find it easier to blame someone like me than to attribute these things to the will of God."

He narrowed his eyes at her last remark but did not object.

Booth stood up from his desk. "This has been helpful," he said. "But I think, given the gravity of what we've discussed today, we can call it a day." He watched her bend over at the waist and wipe the tears from her eyes with the back of her shackled right hand. "We'll resume our discussions tomorrow, if that's alright with you."

Brennan sat up and stared for a moment, flummoxed by his conciliatory demeanor.

"Yes, Father," she said quietly, trying to hide the surprise in her voice. "I agree with you. Your plan sounds...acceptable."

Booth walked to the door and opened it, calling out for the guards to take her away. As the young men lifted her up from her chair, he placed his hand on one of their shoulders and said, "See to it that the prisoner is well-treated, huh? Perhaps an extra hunk of crusty bread and cheese, and maybe a bit of that dessert that I know Mistress Bernadette is saving for dinner? Mistress Brennan seems a bit weaker than I would've expected her to be. The Inquisition needs the accused to be good health in order to accomplish the objective of leading this wayward lamb back to the Holy Church which is her shepherd in this world."

"Aye, Father," the older of two guards said as they led Brennan out of the room.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Booth leaned his head back and sighed.

"What have I gotten myself into?" he asked with an exasperated sigh as he stared at the door through which Brennan had just disappeared. "That woman would try the patience of a saint...and probably damn his soul, too," he said with a small shake of his head before he then crossed himself. "St. Thomas, please grant me strength...and patience."

Shaking his head, Booth sighed again as he repeated his last words. "_Definitely _patience."

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><p><strong>AN: **_So, we've learned a bit more about the accused and one of her accusers._

_These two aggravate yet fascinate one another. Hmm, that's something we've seen before, right? Just not in this particular context._

_As you might guess, things are going to start heating up pretty soon… _::cough:_: __As in, maybe beginning in the next chapter._

_Speaking of the next chapter, it's written and won't take too long to edit. You folks interested in seeing what happens next? Well, we can't wait to show you. Because it's gonna be good._

_Yes, yes, yes. We've said this before, but this piece is way, WAY different than anything either of us have ever done, and we really, REALLY need to know what you people think of this piece thus far._

_So, do take the time to leave us a review. Go ahead and click that wee review button down there. __Oh, please. Don't be coy. You know the one. Yes, darlings, that one right there._

_Thanks._


	5. What It Means To Be A Man

**The Inquisitor**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128  
><strong>Rated: <strong>M  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox via adverse possession. ::blinks:: Okay, not really. But, you get the gist.

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><p><strong>AN: **_This is a long chapter. We tried to avoid it, but as you'll see, it had to be thus. We hope you enjoy it. We promised you things would begin to heat up, and we weren't just talking about the English summer. _

**Unf Alert: **_This is the part of the story where you'll start seeing us discuss subjects of a particularly unf nature. If such subjects make you uncomfortable in any (unwanted) way, don't subject yourself to what follows. Otherwise, read on and enjoy._

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><p><strong>Chapter 5: What It Means to Be A Man<strong>

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><p>Brennan's brain was abuzz with a thousand thoughts and emotions as she allowed the guards to escort her back to her cell without any of her usual passive aggressive protests of walking slowly or making their job of conveying her back to her quarters more difficult than it needed to be. She walked in a daze, absentmindedly going through the motions that she'd completed over the weeks of her incarceration dozens upon dozens of times, as she thought of her most recent interrogation.<p>

_He listened to me_, she thought in abject disbelief, the thought echoing in her mind for what seemed like the hundredth time. _I can't believe it. He...he really and truly listened to me. And, I don't think he was doing it just because he was trying to find a way to make me confess. I know how they look, how they sound when they're doing that. No...today...him...he was different. It was all different. It was almost as if he actually cared about what I had to say. _

As Brennan thought back to the concern that he'd shown as she told him of Daisy Stires' plight, a small part of her―though she was loathe to admit it―was touched by his response. _It's almost as if he felt sympathy for Daisy, _she mused. _He wasn't just responding because Stires had lost three of his boys. It was almost as if he grieved for her experiences and losses as well. It was almost as if...for him, the loss was equal for both the father and the mother. He didn't just see a man who'd lost his sons, but he felt sympathy for a woman who'd lost three of her own babies. Maybe...if that's true, then maybe I've misjudged him, despite my promise to avoid doing just that_—_maybe..._

While they proceeded the short distance back to her cell, another voice echoed in Brennan's head in order to answer her uncompleted train of thought. _Maybe the reason why he's acted differently from all the others, _it told her, _is because perhaps he __is__ different from all the others? Yes, it's clear he's smarter and more well-trained than any of the other brothers here. And, he's definitely the best looking one of the whole lot...not that that matters at all in any way possible, Brennan. Because, it doesn't. _

As she wordlessly turned the final corner that would lead her into the hallway where her cell was located, Brennan continued to struggle with her thoughts. _It's strange, but he does seem...well, different than the rest. He listens, but not just for the purpose of trying to get me to say something that he can use against me. It's almost as if sometimes...maybe, just sometimes, I think that he actually might believe me when I say something. I don't know how or why he'd think that. But, when I look at him, I can almost see the truth of it in his stare. He...he's not a very good liar, I think. His eyes_―_they're very honest, expressive even. I think, if one what the poets say is true, and one could actually see the soul through one's eyes, his gaze might always be undeniable if one wanted to know whatever he was feeling in a given moment_―_love, hate, fear, sadness, arrogance, anger...happiness and hope. Everything he's been, everything he is...everything. All of it_―_everything's right there in his eyes...all one has to do is look to see it. _

Brennan was lost in her thoughts as she continued to allow the guards move her along the path to her cell. She paid just enough attention to not walk into anything or startle her captors, but she was still only half-paying attention as they approached her room. Thus, when the guards grunted at her to halt in front of her cell door so that they could unchain her before she went inside―instead of after as was the usual _modus operandi_―the aberration in their behavior slightly surprised Brennan. She immediately refocused her attention away from the memories of the interrogation that she was replaying in her mind to what was happening to her in the here and now. But, things began to happen so quickly that she didn't even have enough time to open her mouth to speak, let alone to say anything by word of inquiry or protest. However, by the time the guards had unchained her, opened the door, and pushed her through the opening, less than sixty seconds had passed and there wasn't really anything she could do but think about why they had acted so strangely.

Staring at the door as they closed it behind her, she sighed and then shut her mouth. Reaching down, she rubbed her wrists where the shackles had rubbed raw against her hands. As she turned around and started to trudge towards her bed, so that she might at least sit down in comfort as she went over her thoughts about the guards' strange behavior...and her perplexing, albeit evolving, opinion of Father Seeley Booth, her eyes suddenly widened in shock as she took in the sight that greeted her.

"Hey, baby," Matthew Brennan said with a clear smile on his face.

He sat perched on the edge of her bed, clasping an open book in his hands. When he saw Brennan's startled expression, his smile widened into a grin. He shut the book, set it down on the bed, and then quickly stood with outstretched arms open to her.

In an instant, Brennan was across the room, closing the distance between the two of them. As she allowed herself to be swept up in his embrace, she smiled the first genuine smile she'd smiled in more than six weeks.

"Father," she whispered, the happiness and relief she felt at seeing him finally causing her voice to grow thick with emotion.

"How are you doing, Tempe?" Matthew Brennan asked her, murmuring quietly into her ear as he gave her a tight squeeze before letting her go. "I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to come to see you before now, but things have been...a little more hectic than I'd intended."

"It's alright," Brennan responded with a chuckle. Her eyes brightened as she looked at her father. "I've gotten all your messages, and I knew you'd show up eventually, even though I know I probably shouldn't even bother asking how you managed to get in here, should I?"

"No, probably not," he chuckled at his daughter's knowing words. "Because we both know the only answer you'd get is that―"

"You have your ways," she said with a slightly exasperated tone in her voice.

Matthew winked once before he added, "That's my girl."

Brennan gave him a playfully rankled look and then she smiled as she pulled away from him and some of her happiness fell away as she arched an eyebrow at him. "Are you alright, Father? Really?"

"Yeah, of course, I'm fine. You know that, baby girl," he said with a nod of his head. "You know me. I can take care of myself. Now, while it's true that that bitch is doing everything she can think of to get to me because she thinks I have some magic bit of evidence that could affect the succession, she hasn't managed to get one over on me yet." He stopped and then shrugged. "I'm way too smart for her. I'm always at least six steps ahead. She hasn't gotten a thing on me, and that's why she's having to content herself with keeping you locked up in here."

"I haven't said a word," Brennan immediately told her father, the strength of her resolve impressing him as it always had. "I haven't given them anything they can use."

"I figured as much," Matthew nodded. "I knew you'd be strong, Tempe. You may have gotten some of your smarts from me, but it's your mother's spirit that makes you a better person than me by a power of ten."

Never one who'd learned to deal well when she was given praise by someone who she respected and admired, Brennan flushed a bit. She smiled a small smile as she said, "I'm just doing what you'd do if you were in my position."

"Even still," he told her. "I'm proud of you, Tempe. So proud."

"I think they're getting frustrated with me," Brennan told him, trying to steer the conversation away from her father's compliments. "I think they know I won't give you up and that's part of the reason that they keep bringing in different inquisitors to question me. I've already seen a slew of them, but no matter what they try, I refuse to give them anything they could use against me...or, by default, you and our family."

"I know, Tempe," Matthew said with a pleased look on his face. "I know you'd never do anything that would put our family at risk." He stopped and then asked in a more gentle voice, "Are you alright? Are you treated...well?"

"Yes," she responded instantly as she tried to ease what she knew was her father's guilt at the current situation she felt. Gesturing at herself vaguely, she told him, "As you can see, I'm kept well enough."

"And, the interrogations?" he asked, his voice taking on a dangerous edge as he eyed the bruises that were visible on her wrists around the places where the heavy chains had chafed her delicate skin. "What about them?"

"I'm fine," Brennan said.

"You don't look fine," Matthew said, pointing at the bruises. "So help me, I swear to God that if any of them has done so much as look at you the wrong way, let alone abuse you―"

"I swear," she said, taking a step forward as she reached for his hands to try to assuage some of the indignation that she knew her father felt on her behalf. "No one has made a single untoward movement towards me. I've been handled roughly when the guards move me, but that's all. I swear, that's what the bruises are from―nothing more."

"No one's hurt you?" he pressed her. "Or, tried to take advantage of you?"

"No," Brennan chuckled lightly. "No one's even tried. Not that they'd be met with much success on that front even if they tried―as you well know, Father."

"I know, Tempe," Matthew sighed. "I know you can take care of yourself and no one touches you that you don't want touching you, but even still...I just―I worry about you, baby girl."

"I know, Father," she smiled softly at him in a way that tugged at his heart because her smile was the same as her mother's. "But, I swear...besides bossing me around in chains to and from the interrogation room, the worst thing I've had to suffer from is boredom. They keep asking me the same set of questions," Brennan said simply. "Over and over and over again, it's been more of the same each and every day. I'm taken from this cell to the interrogation room, and they ask me the same questions over and over, even though I haven't been told before the last couple of days of what I was accused—even though I knew, Father—I've always known that they're only keeping me here because they can't get to you."

"Even still," Matthew said. "I worry about you."

"I know," she replied. "And, I love you for it, but don't. Don't worry about me. Just worry about yourself, alright?"

"You know," he began as he let go of his daughter, stepped aside, and let his eyes dart around the confines of her cell. "If this is what my bribes have managed to get you, I think I'm scared to even imagine where you might've gotten stuck if it weren't for the power of my money, huh?"

"All in all," Brennan said with a small shrug, "it's not too bad. At least they don't shackle me when I'm locked in here. I get three square meals, and I'm allowed to ruminate unmolested when I'm not in the interrogation room."

"So, they don't make you hear mass then?" Matthew asked, curiosity clear in his voice.

At her father's question, Brennan couldn't help but smile. Recalling the first morning the brothers had brought her from her cell to the chapel, she had disrupted the service singing nursery rhymes until they'd been left with no choice but to remove her if they wished to finish the mass. After she'd done that for five straight days in a row, they'd been content to let the heretic see to the peril of her own soul. "No," Brennan chuckled. "Suffice to say, the good brothers quickly determined that it was in their best interests to leave me to my own heretical devices by the end of the first week of my incarceration. So, for the most part, I'm spared their papist trappings."

"That's my girl," he said as he smiled affectionately at her. He paused for a moment, his blue eyes warm with merriment as he took in the sight of his daughter. He then nodded as he suddenly remembered something important. "Ahh, yes," Matthew suddenly said as he snapped his fingers. "I knew I was forgetting something, so before I go and forget again, I have something for you. Knowing that you've been spared the papist horrors, I'm well pleased―as I'm sure you are, but I still wanted to bring you something to occupy your mind. I would've brought you a copy of Tyndale's translation, but I'm sure they'd confiscate it as soon as I was gone. So, instead, I've brought you the least offensive book I could think of that might amuse you during the hours of your confinement and also cause them not take any issue with the choice of subject matter." He turned around and reached for the book that he'd left on the edge of her bed. Extending his hand to her, he smiled, "Here."

Brennan took the book, even though she'd known in an instant what it was as soon as she'd seen it. A small knot of emotion clenched in her throat as she lifted her blue eyes to meet his as she asked, "Mother's Book of Hours?"

Matthew nodded. "Perhaps it will be a bit of a distraction until one of us can figure out how to get you out of here."

Smiling a radiant smile at him, Brennan stepped forward and again embraced her father. "I love you, Father," she whispered into his ear.

"I know, baby girl, I know," he said with a small amount of emotion creeping into his voice for the very first time. "And, I mean it—we _will _find some way to get you out of here."

This time it was her turn to smile and nod. "I know, Father. I know."

"Just be patient a bit longer, Tempe," Matthew told her. "I know...one way or another, this thing will see itself through to a proper end in fairly short order."

Brennan nodded at him once more in response. Matthew gave her another reassuring smile and then gently kissed her brow before he turned around and walked straight out the cell door without a backward glance.

* * *

><p>Though it had not even reached the time for midday prayers, Father Seeley Booth was in a foul mood, and while there were any number of reasons for his frustration, for the most part, he chose to reserve his ire for the one thing which he had the least power to affect: the weather. After spending the prior two years teaching canon law at the Dominican college at the Basilica of Santa Maria sopra Minerva in Rome, enduring the sweltering heat of Italian summer, he'd actually looked forward to spending a summer in England. He'd figured that the biting, damp cold of the English winter and the slightly less biting damp of the autumn and spring were worth it, all in all, in exchange for a pleasant summer. But, such was not to be—not for this young Dominican, at least not <em>this <em>summer. For this summer was no ordinary summer in England, and that particular morning, the young Black Friar was wondering if some sort of divine punishment was being visited upon him that he had to endure the suffocating heat amid the dank air of London's crowded environs. He'd tossed and turned for hours the night before, unable to find a comfortable respite from the heat until he moved his bed against the wall on one side of his friar's cell, after which he managed to drift off for a couple of hours as he leaned his bare leg and arm against the cool stone. Tired and cranky from lack of sleep, he grumbled as he labored alone in a seemingly airless room in Westminster until it was time for the guards to bring Brennan from her cell.

Eventually, the heavy wooden door unlatched, heralding her arrival, and the accused was brought into the room in chains. Again, as on prior mornings, Booth didn't rise from his chair, nor did he even look up until the prisoner had been seated in the lone chair in the middle of the room and the guards had exited the room again, shutting the door behind them with a heavy _clank. _After a minute or two of silence, he looked up from his papers and leveled his gaze at Brennan.

She stared back at him, her jaw rigid and her eyes hard as she sat there, her back straight and her feet planted firmly on the floor, despite the leg irons that Booth could tell had chafed her ankles raw.

He'd spent most of the past day thinking of Brennan and what she'd told him of Daisy and Michael Stires. _She's not as cold as she appears, _he noted. _She's rather empathetic, isn't she? This woman was clearly affected, personally, by the loss of Mistress Stires' three babies...and probably by others that her clients have lost...and the women themselves that she's seen die. It's not easy work, is it? How she can do it as she's done it for so many years and become the best as she's said is quite amazing. It's probably the reason why she wears her wit and candor as a suit of armor. _He ran his hand through his hair as he thought of her curious manner. _ I need to get her to let her down her guard long enough to determine whether these accusations of witchcraft have any basis in fact. Otherwise, I'm dealing with a fairly ordinary case of heresy, though, admittedly, this woman is hardly an ordinary heretic. _He took a deep breath and sighed. _God help me in either case_.

She was a striking woman, he had to admit, and for reasons he did not completely understand, he found himself transfixed by her. She had fair skin that glowed like porcelain under candlelight—and not simply because she had been kept in a dark cell for the foregoing weeks, mostly deprived of sunlight as well as human contact except for visits from her jailers at mealtimes—and silky hair that shone with a rosy tone that fascinated him. But, more than her hair or her skin, Booth found himself fascinated by her eyes: she had mesmerizing eyes of an unusual hue―not gray and yet not green, somehow a curious swirl of both―and yet they were so bright and so pale, they glimmered like a melting icicle hanging off the roof of a building on the first sunny day after a blizzard. He narrowed his eyes and stared at her, unaware in that moment that his mouth hung slightly open as he struggled to ignore the strange tittering feeling at the base of his spine.

Booth ran his fingers over the close-cropped hair on the top of his head, frowning at the layer of sweat that clung there as he wiped the back of his neck with the heel of his hand. Turning away from her, he glanced down at the papers on his table, just the sight of the handwritten notes reminding him of what he'd read about her case and the accusations against her and how those accounts were starting to contrast with the side of her he was coming to know through their interrogations.

"Good morning, Mistress Brennan," he said with a curt nod.

"Father," she nodded sharply. As Brennan stared at Booth, she noticed the dark circles under his eyes and watched in curiosity. _Hmmm_, she thought. _Perhaps it was his turn to have an uneasy night for some reason_? Brennan mused. _I wonder what kept him from his sleep. Hopefully, it was something less mundane than merely becoming lost in his prayers._

"So...the question before us this morning," he began, "is this―if you're as kind and decent a woman as you seem to be, then how did it come to be said that you're both a heretic...and a witch?" He let his question hang in the air, expecting to hear her denial but wanting to see _how _she would deny it.

He'd watched other Dominicans do this with other accused witches and heretics, and had seen how such a segue often got a hot-headed accused inflamed to the point where a confession was much more readily obtained. He doubted this approach would work here, but he knew that he had to try, as a matter of inquisitorial procedure, since the objective was to secure the accused's confession. Booth frowned at the futility of the query and tugged the thin wool of his white robe away from his chest, already slick with sweat. _Come on, _he urged her silently. _Just deny it so we can move forward and take a different tack. Because you, Mistress, are not going to submit to the same time-worn techniques that my less-clever brethren have used. This much, I already know about you._ _If you had, neither of us would be here now._

"I'm no such thing," she replied tersely, her voice strong though somewhat hoarse.

After Brennan's father had left, she'd finally let some of the pent up emotion that she'd been suppressing since her arrest out. The result was that she'd spent most of the night crying and had little patience. _If he's going to regress to type_, she thought, _and, prove that I was wrong in thinking that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't like all the rest, then fine. But, I really don't have a mind to deal with the standard Dominican misinterpretation of the dictates of the Malleus Maleficarum_, _so enough._

"That's not what Michael Stires the saddler says," Booth said evenly. "I have a transcript of his statement given by way of affidavit right here." He gestured vaguely toward the table behind him. "Why would he say such things, under oath, if they weren't true?"

Brennan turned away, snorted, and then shook her head. "He's a fool," she said. "A huge, giant idiotic dunce...as are you and any others if you believe a word that comes out of his mouth."

Booth smirked at her impertinence. He turned and walked around to the back of the desk, taking a deep breath as he tried to calm his nerves. Glancing at the parchments and folios on the desk, he sighed. _Why? _he asked. _Why must I be assigned this case, with these facts, and these particular accusations, involving this woman? We have a docket full of accused women, _he thought sullenly. _Why must I have been given, for my first case, this particular accused: a highly intelligent but strong-willed and impertinent woman? Why, if I must try the case of a keen-witted, sharp-tongued woman like this, must she be one whose occupation permits her to weave lurid and untoward details about women's private anatomy into ordinary conversation? And why must the woman I try under these circumstances and for these offenses be, indubitably, one of the most beautiful women that I've ever laid eyes upon? And, now, here I am to begin another day like she's a cat and I'm her favorite ball of yarn. She going to play with me merely because there's little else to tempt her to pass the time in other ways aside from making me squirm because of the fact that I have to start bringing up vocabulary about other parts of the human anatomy. _Booth sighed, drummed his fingers on the top of one of his folios, then walked back around to the front of the desk and stood a couple of feet in front of it and about three feet in front of Brennan, whose pale eyes had narrowed, fixing him with a hard, critical glare as she watched him stall. A faint smile tugged at the edges of her mouth but fled when he crossed his hands in front of his waist and arched an eyebrow. "He says you're a witch that cast a spell on him and stole his manhood."

"I don't know what that means," she said with a dark laugh. "But, if he thinks that anything I said or did is the cause of some inability on his end to carry out his essential duties as a husband, then he's most assuredly a callow fool. And, if he literally means I stole his manhood by amputating any of his disgusting manly parts—well, then, he's a two-faced liar. I have never been much closer to his so-called manhood than I am to yours right now, though not for lack of a revolting wanting and an irksomely persistent trying on his part."

Booth cleared his throat at the reference to his manhood, looking down at the floor as he closed his eyes and tried to jettison the strange sensation he felt behind his navel_. What...what is this? You say you're no witch..and yet...what is this? Obviously something's happening here_―_something's happening between us. And it's not because of me, so it's obviously your doing. Seriously, _he thought as he raised his eyes to look at her again, _by all that's holy, what are you doing to me, woman? _

"What do you mean, 'lack of wanting on his part?'" he asked, a certain hoarseness creeping into his own voice as he spoke.

Brennan narrowed her eyes, curious to see if the Booth who listened and valued her words from the day before would return or if he'd be as foolishly obtuse as the rest of his fellow brethren. "Michael Stires came to me one day," she began. "I'd met him a number of times over the years, though he was mostly gone in the morning and early afternoons, plying his trade on those days when I made my visits to his wife, Daisy, in their home. But, he'd been in attendance when she was in her labor the first time, and also the second time, when she delivered the stillborn." She sighed and rubbed her palms together as she remembered her encounters with Stires and how violently ill they made her feel.

_It's not like it was __that__ big a deal, _Brennan thought. _I mean, it's like Father said_―_no man touches me who I wouldn't have touching me, and I handled the situation with Stires...but even still. If this were anyone else but him to whom I'd be telling this tale_―_because I think, for some reason, it's very important that I tell him the truth of all of this_―_I think I'd retch until the contents of my stomach were voided right in this very minute._

Taking a breath to still the bitter taste of bile that touched at the back of her throat as she thought of how to give voice to the unpleasant memories, she steeled herself as best should could before she resumed speaking. "He wanted to bed me," she said, disgust dripping from each word she spoke. "He would try to touch me, my backside, or else brush his hands against my arm and 'slip' such that his hands touched my bosom." She raised her eyes to meet Booth's in that moment and saw him watching her intently. _Ahh, _she thought. _So, the Father Seeley from yesterday is in there somewhere...he's just hiding a bit today for some reason. But, perhaps I can draw him out with more of my story of Michael and Daisy...as long as I don't make myself lose my meager breakfast in the process. _"Mind you, Father, this is a married man, whose wife was heavy with child, and he still acted in such a callow and dishonorable way. In any case, I never gave him any indication I had any interest in him, or that I reciprocated his feelings or desires in any way and tried to discourage his propositions at every opportunity that I had to do so."

Booth's eye twitched involuntarily as he heard her say _desires. _He cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and shook his head as he continued to listen.

_What's he thinking_? she wondered, as she noticed that Booth had closed his eyes. _Surely, he doesn't think me an easy strumpet who falls down and spreads her legs for anyone who'd have his way with me? _

"Continue, Mistress," Booth said, suddenly snapping his eyes open and prompting her when the silence had gone on between them too long.

"So one day," she said grimly with a curt nod of acknowledgement, "I'd had to go on an errand for my father, and so I went to the barn to saddle up our horse. For some reason, Michael was there, waiting for me. There was no reason for him to be there since Daisy had miscarried some weeks earlier. But, still I asked him what he wanted as sometimes women do experience bleeding and other complications in the weeks after a miscarriage. His eyes were dark and wild, and I could tell, just from the way he looked at me, that he wanted me to tumble me right there in the barn, like we were two sweating animals rutting in the hay, as they say." She paused and sighed. "He walked towards me, and cornered me against the wall of the barn. I could hear his breathing was heavy, and he said to me, 'My wife doesn't want you, but I do, wench.' My back was to the wall of the barn, and I struggled to move as he pressed his hips into mine. He said 'I want you, and I know you want me, and I thought I'd take the liberty of making it easy for us to achieve those wants.' He reached for the front of my dress and tugged at it like some kind of crazed animal, damn near ripping my bodice apart. He leaned into me, pressing his lips against mine so hard it hurt, but I didn't return his kiss. I protested telling him that I didn't want him―that I never had and never would, but still he persisted. He said 'I know you want me, even if you don't. And, I'll have you, mistress, here and now.' Now, it's true that I may not have as much experience as some women in the art of kissing, but even I know enough to know that tonguing a salted cod would be preferable to taking any part of a man like Michael Stires' in my mouth―"

Her words―and the notion of the woman before him taking a man, or any part of him, into her mouth―resonated in Booth's mind in a way he could not completely comprehend. He watched as she spoke, her mouth opening and closing as her lips formed words, and, for a few seconds, he found himself unable to think of anything other than that mouth closing around another pair of lips.

_Wait_―_what? She said...what did she say? What part of a man? _Booth winced slightly at the thought of what part of a man those lips might also be capable of closing around, and he quickly pushed the aberrant thought out of his mind. _No, surely...such a devious thing...no, she wouldn't. She couldn't. Even as challenging a woman as she is wouldn't dare to imperil her immortal soul by indulging in such deviant and hedonistic behaviors. Surely not. _But, at the searing tingle he felt in his groin at the thought of it, Booth had to force himself to take several deep breaths before he felt some modicum of control over his body return to him.

"He muttered curses at me for resisting him, and pressed against me again with his hips," Brennan continued. "He called me a whore, tramp, and slut, who meant 'yes' even if I said 'no.' He said he'd give it to me good, bedding me as a wanton wench like me needed to be bedded in the years since my husband had died. The more I struggled, the more it seemed to inflame him. I could feel he was hard, and he grabbed my arm, yanking me away from the wall as he tried to push me to the ground."

Booth stared at her, his mind filled with a vivid image of Brennan―her beautiful creamy skin flushed pink, a thin sheen of perspiration covering her cheeks, throat, and the swell of her breasts, her lips bee-stung, and her chest heaving, the laces of the front of her dress half uncinched, and her hair mussed and threaded with errants pieces of straw―as she lay in the hay, her legs spread and the skirt of her long dress hitched up over her knees, and even still―even in that vulnerable and violated position, he still admired how she resolved to fight against Stires' and his unwanted attentions until the very end.

_I don't understand. I truly don't. What's happening here? _he asked himself as he struggled to still his mind and focus. _Why does this tale of hers—which should bring forth feelings of sympathy or concern, or perhaps even indignation at the man who treated her this way_―_why does it do anything but that? I don't...I don't understand why I don't feel anything like that. Or rather, I feel so much more than that. _

_All I know is that I picture her like that, and I can't help but want to know more. I want to know what she did and why and how she came to be this curious creature who's sitting here before me today. Why should I...why should any of this be exciting to me? Why does it make her more interesting to me? Why do I find myself almost admiring her for the way she handled this revolting and untoward situation? And...not just admiring her, God help me_―_but wanting... _

_No. I-I...oh, God, there's more than just admiration there, isn't there? God...what's she doing to me? I-I...I just...I don't understand. I truly don't._

He felt a raw jolt at the base of his spine and a dull, hard tugging sensation in his gut, right behind his navel, and he found himself squirming in place as he became vaguely uncomfortable, his skin flushing warm as he tried to rid himself of the sinfully wanton image that refused to leave his mind. _It's not that she was the subject of unwanted attentions, an assault on her person really, by this man who has now accused her of witchcraft. _He shook his head. _No, that's not it. I don't understand it. _He swallowed hard and looked down at the floor. _Is it that she fought back? Is it that she was strong enough to resist? _Booth took a deep breath and sighed. _Like she's doing now? Resisting the Inquisition? Is that why...where this want comes from? _

_God help me...God help me...God help me._

He paused for another moment and rubbed the flat of his palm across his forehead to brush away the perspiration that had beaded there. He wasn't certain if it was because of the heat of the day or something else, and he was almost too scared to think about it if it was the latter.

_Why is this happening to me? How can it be that the thought of this woman with a man does these things to me? _Booth bit down on the inside of his lip as his mind raced. _I've practiced canon law for the better part of ten years. Many of the cases that I've dealt with have involved men and women: men engaged in carnal acts of sin with women; men who have fornicated and thus sinned when they committed sexual acts outside the sanctified purview of their marriage-bed; and women, too, who have done such things. But, never before, never __ever__ before, have I ever felt this way at the very thought of a woman with a man. _

He swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut briefly as he tried to ignore the sensations below his waist. _Never before have I heard such things testified to and placed myself in such a scene. Never. I've never even wanted to...want. That's the problem, isn't it? Some way, somehow, want has entered into this exchange here. Surely that's the something that's different here, that I am responding this way, so differently than I have before. How did that happen? Why? Who is this woman that she can do these things to me? How can she bring to bear these kinds of untoward responses in me? This isn't the man I am. I'm not an ordinary man. I don't want_―_I can't want_―_I shouldn't want. That is, I don't let myself be put at risk by even entertaining thoughts of possibly succumbing to these kinds of base temptations. I don't feel these things. I've never let these kinds of sinful, carnal thoughts take root in my mind, and there's absolutely no reason why I should start now. Damn it, no. It stops here. I won't...she won't...that won't be happening. That's just all there's to it. No, no, no! _Again he bit down on the inside of his lip, hard enough this time that he could taste the coppery flavor of his blood ooze into the space between his lip and his teeth. _Who is this woman—this_ _particular, this singular woman—that she has turned me into a different man than the man I was before?_

"He wanted to take me, whether I was willing or not, by force if he had to," she explained. "He came into that barn with the idea of having his way with me. He thought that day that he would penetrate me, but it was I who was actually the one who penetrated him that day―"

Booth sucked the blood from the inside of his own lip and felt his breath catch in his throat as she uttered the word _penetrate. _

"The farrier had been in the day before to reshoe our horse, and he'd left behind his hoof knife," Brennan continued. "When Michael Stires grabbed for my arm to push me to the ground, I saw the hoof knife laying nearby, and I reached for it. So, when he pulled on my left arm, trying to drag me to the ground, I brought that knife around and slashed his arm. I cut him wide open, from here to here." She turned her shackled hand and demonstrated by pointing to her wrist and elbow. "He screamed like a small child, blubbering about how he'd make me rue the day I dare turn down his advances as he ran from that barn, and I'm sure directly to a surgeon since he's still alive...regretfully," she said with a laugh. "He was bleeding quite profusely, and after he ran away, he never came at me again after that."

_She fought back, _he thought, unable to suppress the faint smile that appeared on his lips. _This woman fought off a man bigger and, presumably, stronger than her, and wounded him grievously. _His eyebrows furrowed as he thought about the scene she had just recounted. _Fascinating...and important. That she resisted this man's advances would be enough to cast suspicion on the veracity of his allegations, _he noted. _That in such resistance she wounded him so badly gives me even more pause. _If he found himself fascinated by her before, he swore then he could feel the thought of her beginning to send roots deep into his mind.

For several moments, Booth said nothing, his mouth agape as he tried to still the flood of strange sensations that flooded through him at hearing her recount that story. It wasn't simply the tightness in his groin, or the tingle that surged from his navel down through his manhood and into his legs, traveling all the way down to the tips of his toes and the soles of his feet. It was a warmth that rose up in his chest, a heaviness there that he had never felt before. It was the way his heart raced every time their eyes met, and the way his stomach seemed to flip over inside of him when he heard her speak.

_God, if she's this beautiful now, _Booth thought, _I wonder what she would look like if she were actually happy to see me one day? _

On the other hand, Brennan sat staring at the priest, trying to take in her measure of him as she waited to see which one of them would be the next to speak. _Honestly, I'm surprised he hasn't already begun chastising me to stop spreading my vile lies about Michael Stires_, she thought as she studied Booth's reaction, which while quite enigmatic, at the very least wasn't the standard response that all the other priests and friars had had when she'd told this part of her story to them._ Even if he is different from the rest of them, he's still a man, and so any latitude that I have with him only goes so far. And, yet, still...he hasn't said a word to gainsay me. He's listened to me...and unless I'm very much mistaken in reading people, I think that maybe, just maybe_―_well, I think that he believes me. I think that he believes me when I've said what I said about what happened between Stires and I. _Brennan paused as she looked at Booth and gave him an enigmatic glance, which she noticed for some reason, wasn't even registered by the clearly distracted inquisitor._ Hmmm, maybe he isn't quite like all the others as I thought he might be. Perhaps...maybe...for some reason, this one __is__ different, even if only because he's willing to listen to me...at least, he is when he's paying attention to me. What's on your mind now? My instinct says it's not that you're doubting me, so what else can it be?_

Booth felt his heart pounding in his chest, and he felt lightheaded. He turned away from her, unable to look at her eyes—or, worse perhaps, her lips—as he felt himself slip into a panic. He walked back around to his desk and stood behind it, desperate to place some physical barrier between him and this puzzling woman. _This is unreal, _he thought. _This is literally unreal_—_it is not real. I'm dreaming. She's bewitched me somehow, and drawn me into a strange space where I am not the man I was before. She's robbed me of my discipline. She seeks to make me give up my virtue. This woman is... _He sat down and stared at the characters on the page of his Latin legal text, then brought his eyes to meet hers again. _No, _he told himself. _I already made the decision. The want...it's not real. I don't feel it. It's insignificant, it's unimportant. It's not even there. I can't want, I shouldn't want, and because I'm not weak...I won't want. If I did...then it's just the Devil. Yes, that's it. It's the Devil trying to use her to make me weak through some internal fault of my own. He thinks I'm weak and can be corrupted. But he's wrong. I'm the one who must steel myself against temptation. This woman cannot be that different from other women. I've never been tempted before_―_not really_―_and so why should now be any different? I simply...I shall not succumb to this temptation. I won't give into her. I just...I won't. I shan't be weak. I must be as strong as I've ever been. That's it. That's how it must be, and so it will be. For the love of the Holy Mother, pull yourself together, man. _

After another few deep breaths, although he still couldn't meet her gaze, he did find the power to speak once more. "You never told anyone what he did to you...what he tried to do to you, did you?" he finally managed to ask. "This is a key piece of evidence for this case against you, Mistress, and yet this is the first that I've heard of it. Now, why is that?"

"Because," Brennan replied with a slight shrug of her shoulders. "You're right. I didn't tell anyone. Why would I? No one would have believed me except my father, and I'd prefer not to see him hanged at Tyburn for murder once he killed the man who tried to violate his daughter―and make no mistake, Father, if _my _father knew what Stires had done...or tried to do, even, he'd be a dead man, pure and simple. So, since it would've been my word against his if I'd tried to go a legal route by reporting it to the sheriff―with him being a married man and a respected craftsman in his guild, I knew I'd be laughed out of the Guildhall." She stopped and shook her head as she added, "Besides, he has a persuasive way about him. People believe him, on account of the way the words come out of his mouth and what most others consider to be his handsome face, even if there's no truth to them whatsoever." She huffed a short laugh and smirked. "Which apparently is what happened here."

She stopped and pursed her lips for a minute as she gave Booth another measured look as she saw him consider her words. _Except for you...you believe me, not Stires, don't you? _She stopped for a few seconds, staring at him, as she made her decision. _Yes, I think you do. I think you believe me. Now, if I'm right, and you believe me as I think you do, then the next question is...what are you thinking, Father? I can see the turmoil and frenetic thoughts swirling in your eyes. So, if you believe me, what's causing that? Are you trying to think of another way to get at me for the Inquisition if Stires' and the evidence he gave is shown to be bogus as I've said? Are you afraid you'll be chastised if you have to let me go because I've been proven innocent of the charges? Or, is it something else? _she thought curiously. _What's going on in that chaotic mind of yours?_

After another moment of heavy silence that hung between the pair, Brennan couldn't help herself. She needed to know the answer to her question about what Booth was thinking, and so, for the first time in their interrogations, it was _she _who prompted _him _as she asked, "So that's the start of all of this, isn't it? The lie that he told some papist monk, right—tell me, isn't that how all this started?"

Booth's jaw hardened as his chaotic mind reached out and seized on the one thing in that moment he could anchor himself to as he struggled with how she was making him feel: her disdain for the papacy and the Holy Mother Church that Booth held so dear. Over _that _there was no question of how he felt, and he should act to defend the slurs she'd cast against it.

"Are you challenging the veracity of the statement he gave under sworn oath before a brother of my Order, just fifty feet down that corridor there six weeks ago? A statement that he swore unto God, on peril of his soul being damned to hell for all eternity, as true?" Booth quickly countered, somewhat surprised at how firm his voice sounded given how discordant his thoughts and feelings had become in the course of their interview.

"Pfffft," she snorted. "I don't care who he swore to, or swore at, or got sworn at by. He's a fool, and an ignoramus, and he doesn't know a thing about me. He never has...and most people don't, no matter what they believe. I keep to myself for precisely that purpose, Father, so I know the truth of it―of who and what I am. Now, you can take my word for that or not, but I tell you Stires is a liar as we both know that swearing a thing before God or anyone else doesn't make it true or false."

"Come on, now," he said. "What a man might say casually, in a tavern or in the Guildhall, is different than what he'd say in a room like this, under oath before a man of God, with an image of our crucified Lord staring down at him." Booth narrowed his eyes. "You've got a lot of cheek, Mistress, to challenge the sworn statement of a man—"

Unwilling to let him finish, she lifted her chin and looked at him through hardened eyes. "A man like you, educated—though your education is limited to that which the papist church taught you—should nonetheless know better than to ascribe truth to a statement simply because it is sworn. You know this, don't you, Father?" The last word fell from her lips, dripping with sarcasm. After another moment, she shook her head and added, almost as an afterthought, "I've never understood exactly why they called men like you 'father,' when you know nothing of what it means to be a man, never mind a husband or a father in the true sense of the words."

"You do realize, Mistress Brennan," he said, his voice taking on a silky edge of warning to it as he spoke. "That you are merely digging yourself into a deeper and deeper hole with every word you say along such lines. You're walking precariously on the edge of blasphemy, speaking this way of a priest and his sacred vows."

"Poppycock," she snickered derisively, noting with a bit of smugness that she was obviously _finally _having an effect on him since he'd reverted to using her full title and last name. _Aha, _she thought gleefully. _I've got you at last, Father, don't I? I've got you!_ "I may not be a papist like you anymore because I've seen the truth of things and come to see the light about religion in our day and age, but I know enough to know that blasphemy of the sort you allege I've just uttered is a sin of which I can be absolved by way of simple prayers and devotions and acts of good works."

Booth felt his pulse throb in his neck and his ears flush red at the gall of the woman in chains before him as she tried to use doctrine against him in their arguments. _This is the last thing I would've imagined myself doing: debating the fine points of Christian doctrine with an accused witch...and one who actually knows something of the subject. God help me. I'm not sure why I'm doing this, but... _

He glanced down at his hand as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "Well," he began, "A priest of my Order—one Thomas Aquinas, whom you might have heard of—once said that, 'It is clear that blasphemy, which is a sin committed directly against God, is more grave than murder, which is a sin against one's neighbor.' He said, 'it is called the most grievous sin, for as much as it makes every sin more grievous.'"

The prisoner shook her head as she laughed dismissively, "I don't care whether Thomas Aquinas, Thomas More or Thomas Cranmer said it, Father." Again, the word 'Father' sounded almost caustic coming from her lips. "Actions speak louder than words," she said. "Acts—deeds, my dear friar, not words—these things make us good or bad. The world is torn asunder by the evil that men like Michael Stires do, and not just by the things that they say. And, in the end, it's made whole again, not by pleasant words, but by the hard work of good people, treating each other decently. All the talk in the world, one way or the other, isn't worth a pissant if it isn't accompanied by deeds. And, this—this is what makes my church a different church than yours."

Grinning in satisfaction at her little rant—and at having managed to get through it all without being interrupted by the young, admittedly quite handsome Dominican who was, apparently, the inquisitor who had officially taken over her case—Temperance Brennan shifted her hips in the hard wooden chair and tried to make herself more comfortable despite the chains that bound her wrists and ankles.

"There is only _one _true Church," Booth said simply.

"Words," Brennan said with a crooked smile and a small shake of his head. "Those are just words. You, Father, and your whole church is a crumbling edifice built on words. They're very pretty words, I'll grant you, but I would expect nothing less from a man like you."

_A man like me? _Booth silently repeated her sentence in his head. _What do you mean a man like me? And, furthermore...who are you to just see me as a mere man? _

"A real man, and a real church, is comprised of more than just words," Brennan said sharply. "A real man puts his two shillings where his mouth is and does something. All the rest—men like Michael Stires—should grow a set. Be a man. A ram has a penis and two balls and knows more about what he should do with them and how he should behave than the dullards like you who fight against their nature and refuse to be what they really are."

A flash of emotion shone in Booth's eyes at what was obviously a challenge to him―both professionally as a priest and inquisitor and personally as a man. Unable to help himself, Booth threw himself to his feet. His body tensed as gripped the edge of the oak table in front of him with both his hands, holding the table so hard that his fingers were turning white.

"Who are you?" Booth began sharply. "Who are you to presume to know anything about me? As a man or otherwise."

"You hide behind the cloak of the Church just as you hide yourself behind that black robe, Father," Brennan said simply, hiding her surprise at the passion of his response. _Who knew it? _she thought. _Perhaps...maybe he feels things more deeply and less...orthodoxly than I might've thought. Hmmm._ "Even if I didn't know anything else about you, that would be enough."

"I do _not _lie," Booth said instantly. "I don't lie, I don't hide, and I sure as hell don't need you sitting in judgment of me with that self-satisfied, self-assured smirk that you've been wearing for days despite the fact that _you _are the one in chains, and I'm not."

"Fair observations, all," Brennan said after a moment. "And, yet, I see you still don't dare refute what my key point was, Father."

"Perhaps I don't refute what I can't understand given its incomprehensibility," Booth responded. _This maddening woman is outflanking every move I've made so far. Every time I move, she's there to meet me. I thought I could manage her by meeting her at her level, but she's proved to be a more worthy adversary than I'd supposed. But if she thinks she can out-smart me, she's made a very big mistake. She's a fool if she thinks I've even begun to fight. _"What you say is such utter nonsense, I cannot begin to debate it."

"Or, perhaps," she replied with narrowed eyes. _He must be truly panicked by something I've said if he's challenging my intelligence of all things, _Brennan thought. _I just wish I knew what it was. It isn't...maybe...no, it couldn't be could it? _ "You know that I'm right when I say that you aren't a real man."

"I'm a man," Booth growled back, the bile rising in his throat as he felt his ears get hot with rage. _How dare she? She knows nothing of what I am, of what brought me to this place, what made me what I am. She doesn't know what I could've been, were I not what I am today. But, no matter what she thinks_—_her opinion be damned. I know exactly who and what I am. Why do I even care what she thinks, anyway? I __am __a man. The path I've taken doesn't make me less of a man. _He felt the blood roaring in his ears as he tried to push away the thought of what might have been, of another life he might have had. _It doesn't matter anymore. I am what I am. It's done._

He stared at her, his jaw rigid with anger as he tried to control his temper. "I _am _a man. I'm a man who's made sacred vows to serve something bigger than myself, Mistress. But I'm no less a man than any other man on account of having taken those vows. All of the things that make a man, all of these I have...and more. I still think, I still feel, I still am exactly the way as all other men are, but I deny those more base wants and feelings in the name of a higher purpose." He leveled another hard stare at her. "I suppose I need not tell you what it is that makes a man different from a woman. What it is that a man has that a woman does not, and _vice versa._ I should imagine that you are quite aware of those things by now."

"It takes more than mere anatomy, Father, to make a man," Brennan scoffed disdainfully. "And, since I've yet to see a real man in this place, Father―despite your heartfelt claims to the contrary―frankly, I don't want to hear what empty words Michael Stires swore on some empty oath before some empty-headed black robe like you. None of it is worth a rat's ass as far as I am concerned."

"So, is that what you think I am, woman?" he barked. "An empty-headed black robe? You know nothing of me, Mistress Brennan. You know nothing of who I am, or from what I came, or what experiences I bring here today. You know nothing of me. And, although I would like to give you the benefit of the doubt, woman, and say that you are simply ignorant of the Holy Church and the manner in which the men and women of the Church minister to God's flock, which would make you a heathen, it's clear that you know quite a lot about matters pertaining to the Church. Which, given what you have said about the priesthood and the mendicant brothers whom I serve alongside, suggests that you are, in fact, a heretic, who with full knowledge of the truth, casts it aside and disavows it. Is that what you are, Mistress Brennan: a heretic?"

"By your church's definition, I suppose some would consider me a heretic," Brennan said with a slight shrug of her shoulders as she refused to rise to the level of an uncontrolled emotional display that he was so clearly having by some effect she was having on him. "But, that matters little to me, as I've told you and your brethren many times before―"

"Ahhhh, yes," Booth suddenly snapped as he looked at her with a piercing look. "So, you've said, Mistress Brennan―so you've said." He stopped and then narrowed his eyes as his voice took on a deeper gravel. "But, as I too have said...warned you, quite honestly...I'm not the same man as those who have come before me. So, you would do well to take heed not to underestimate me or what I will do to you if you continue to press me in this irksome way of yours that you always have about, Mistress." He paused and then said tersely, "I'm not a man to be trifled with, so do _not _press me too far."

"I'm not afraid of you," she said simply. "There's nothing that you can do, or say for that matter, that will ever make me fear you. So, my dear Father, do what you will with me."

The inquisitor stood in front of her, stunned and more than a little puzzled.

_It wasn't supposed to go this way, _he told himself. _She shouldn't...I shouldn't...we shouldn't...being doing it like this. We shouldn't...it shouldn't be happening like this, between us. There should be no confusion, no distress here, no emotions here. It should be simple, not chaotic. I should leave here with more answers than questions, more at peace than at war with myself. I shouldn't...none of this should be happening. It just shouldn't._

He chastised himself silently for letting this bullheaded, impertinent, blaspheming woman get the best of him. Muttering something inaudible under his breath, he walked past her and to the door, pausing briefly to look at her in profile before opening the door and summoning the guards. His gaze lingered on the long, straight line of her square jaw and at the long, dark eyelashes that framed her icy, pale eyes.

He felt his stomach quiver and then flip in his belly, then turned away, shaking his head at the curious sensation. Reaching for the door, he turned to her and growled, "Just so you know...I'm not finished with you, Mistress Brennan."

"I should have supposed not," she said evenly, her mouth forming a half-grin that caught his eye in the fraction of a second before he opened the heavy oak door with its wrought-iron fixtures.

_Enough_, he thought, panicking as he considered her words and smile. _Enough for now. I need...I can't be near her. I need time to think...time and space to pull myself together. I can't let her affect me like this. She shouldn't_―_we shouldn't. That's enough. Now...it's enough._

"Guards!" he called out, wincing at the pinched, ragged edge he heard in his own voice.

_What is this woman doing to me? _he wondered. _I don't care what the evidence says or not. Surely she's a witch. A witch. A sorceress. A heretic. And an impertinent wench who thinks she's better than me...that she's gotten the better of me. Damn her._

As the guards suddenly appeared in the door, he saw a strange look cross Brennan's face. Knowing it was quite important to let her know that she wasn't getting the last word in on this round of their sparring, Booth said with a downturned nose, "We're most assuredly not done here, woman." He felt his jaw tense as a prickly sensation tingled again in his lower back. "We are, however, done for today." He then nodded at the guards and said, "Take her."

* * *

><p>"Father Seeley!" a booming voice called out from the far end of the long table in the friary's dining hall. Booth glanced at the various friars seated in a long line before he found the face he was looking for.<p>

"Brother Wyatt," he said, acknowledging the older man with a nod. The friar seated immediately across from Wyatt looked up and, seeing Booth's eyes narrow quickly at meeting his gaze, he cleared his throat and slid a couple of feet farther down the bench, making room for Booth. As he sat down on the hard wooden bench, he thought of her, sitting in front of him in the hard wooden chair, squirming in her seat as her shackled wrists and ankles kept her from finding a comfortable position. _Why am I still thinking about her? _he asked himself. _This is insanity. Why...why can't I get her out of my head? I don't understand this. _Swallowing, he chastised himself. _Enough. There's no reason to react this way. Breathe. Clear your head. Find your center. Don't let her get to you. Take back control. You're the one that's in charge here_—_not her. Enough. Don't give her the satisfaction of controlling you this way. _

"My thanks, Brother," Booth said with a cocky grin as he took his seat and turned to Wyatt with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Wyatt looked at Booth, pursing his lips as he noticed the younger man's worn-down appearance. His eyes seemed tired, with dark circles under them, and as the serving girl brought his meal of chicken stew with dumplings, Wyatt was surprised to see the father-friar hesitate as he poked at his dumplings with the tines of his fork, deflating them with a lazy curiosity before slowly tucking in and munching on a chunk of boiled chicken.

"Something troubling you there, Father?" Wyatt asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Nah," Booth said dismissively. "Nothing to worry about. I just haven't been sleeping as well the last few nights, you know. It must be the change in the weather―you know, this oppressive heat―it's just seems that when I was getting used to the temperate clime, it's gone and changed itself on the spin of a coin."

"Aye," the senior Brother acknowledged. "But, for one who's spent the last ten years in the southern latitudes with hot Mediterranean breezes blowing through your robes, I'd for one think that you'd be glad to home again."

"Hmmmph," another brother chirped up on Booth's other side. Leaning over the table, the tall, lean Italian with the gray-streaked black hair shook his head and said, "I know what ails you, and I dare say it isn't the weather. It's that Mistress Temperance Brennan that's wearing on you, Father, isn't it?" He narrowed his eyes and looked Booth over skeptically as the latter kept poking at his chicken dumplings. "She's a difficult one, she is―probably the worst one we have in the docket right now. If you want a friendly word of advice, I say, pace yourself, Father. Pace yourself, or she'll wear you down the way she did with both Brother Antonio and Brother Ulrich."

"I'm quite capable of handling that woman, thank you very much," Booth said, rolling his eyes as the Italian friar next to him. _Is it that obvious? _he thought. _God help me, I thought I was holding myself together better than that. She really has gotten under my skin, and far worse than I had thought if the other brothers can already see it. I can't let them see me this way. I can't let her see me this way. I must pull myself together. His Eminence, the Archbishop, brought me here from Rome because I was the best_—_or one of the best—head and shoulders better than these other men. I must prove myself worthy of his trust and show_—_prove to him by whatever means necessary_—_that I can do what no one else could. _Booth nodded at his own thoughts, then turned back to the Italian brother.

"She's not your ordinary commoner," he said. "Nor is she your ordinary tradeswoman. But as they taught us when we were reading law, brothers—you take your counterparty as you find them, not as you wish them to be. If this woman is, as she seems to be, sharp-tongued and stubborn as a mule, well, then I'll just have to adjust my process accordingly." Wyatt shot him a knowing grin, but said nothing. "You'll see brothers," Booth said with a wink as he picked up his cup of ale. "I'll shut this woman and her antics down, and this _inquisitio specialis _will proceed in the ordinary course. Just you wait."

The Italian leaned his head over the table again to speak. "You know, Father," he said, "that it's not just this woman's hard-headed manner and sharp tongue that make her a challenge?"

Booth arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Wyatt shrugged, took a bite off his hunk of crusty bread and mumbled with his mouth half-full, "It's not the woman who's the entirety of the challenge."

"Aye," one of the brothers, a Scotsman named Blane, chipped in. "Her father's quite a virulent supporter of that so-called Church of England. He's quite friendly with the heretical factions that continue to fester here and about, plotting against the Queen and God's Holy Church."

"Indeed," Wyatt said, raising his pewter tankard of ale demonstratively. "He once served Queen Anne personally, having received a royal appointment. He worked alongside the Queen's personal physician, he did―well, at least until King Henry had her executed—"

"At which point," the Italian butted in again, "he, too, fell from grace and was reduced to being a humble apothecary plying his trade for the benefit of the masses out of his shop down the road in Marylebone."

"But," Wyatt added, shooting an annoyed look towards the Italian for interrupting him. "He was never just a humble apothecary, now was he? This man is an exquisitely talented scientist and herbalist, and he's quite well-connected. It's said he personally delivered into the palace concoctions he'd compounded himself that no one had ever seen or heard of, comprised of ingredients never before seen in England—some of them from as far away as India and possibly even China."

"Aye," Brother Blane agreed with a grinning, snaggle-toothed nod. "I've heard it said, and believe it to be true, brothers, that the now-headless queen that lies rotting under the stones in St. Peter ad Vincula―God be praised―that she brought him into her retinue, not because of the medicinal benefits of his skillfully-crafted concoctions, but because he could formulate the quickest-killing poisons in the realm, which were so subtle that the imbiber never knew that anything had been tampered with until they fell, face-first, into their supper or slumped over in their chair after just a sip of the poisoned wine."

Booth held his tongue between his lips as he listened to the friars gossip. "So," he grinned, "I should be fine as long as I don't accept an invitation to go drinking with her father, ehhh, then?"

Wyatt laughed. "Your incorrigible self-assurance, Father," he said, "may yet be the end of you."

"Watch me, brothers," Booth said with a waggle of his eyebrows. "I'll get this woman. I don't care who her father is or who he sent to the grave with his dirty tricks. Just you watch. I'll nail her to the wall."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_Nice parting line there, Booth. _

__Wow, huh? _ Hmmm. Yes, well, we did give you an adult content warning. We just left it a bit vague as to why._

_Oh, and look__―a couple of more canonical characters cropped up in this chapter. How 'bout them apples?_ *wink*

_Yes, and things have begun to heat up between our dear Father Seeley and the accused, Mistress Brennan. Is he going to be able to pull himself together? (Doubtful.) Is she as deeply affected by him as he appears to be by her? (Maybe.) What's going to happen here? (Yeah, we know you know. You just want to know how it *_cough_* comes together, when, and why.) Things really begin to fall into place, or fall apart, depending on your viewpoint, in the next chapter._

_Speaking of the next chapter, are you good people interested in seeing what happens next? Well, we can't wait to show you. Because it's gonna be really, really good. /cocky button off_

_Right, well...we've said this before, but this piece is way, WAY different than anything either of us have ever done, and we really, REALLY need to know what you people think of this piece thus far, especially now that things are starting to heat up._

_So, do take the time to leave us a review. Go ahead and click that wee review button down there. Oh, please. Don't be coy. You know the one. Yes, darlings, that one right there._

_Thanks._


	6. Temptation

**The Inquisitor**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128  
><strong>Rated: <strong>M  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox via adverse possession. ::blinks:: Okay, not really. But, you get the gist.

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><p><strong>AN: **_Okay, it's the _**dharmamonkey **_here, and I want to take a moment to remind you good readers that, even though this wee story is posting under my profile, this piece is definitely a collaboration. It's time to give massive, enthusiastic props to my absolutely brilliant (if somewhat elusive) coauthor, _**Lesera128**_, who deserves the credit for coming up with the concept behind this piece. We were sitting in a Starbucks and I said something to her about how it'd be neat to do a historical AU piece if we could only find the right concept, meaning one that nobody had ever tried before. Lesera threw out the idea of a Booth-as-inquisitor, Brennan-as-accused-witch piece, set in England during the reign of Queen Mary. The monkey was at first a little hesitant, but after letting the idea percolate for a day or two through the somewhat-dense monkeybrain, and after being reminded of how 'unf' a certain forbidden-love story called _The Thorn Birds _was, and being further reminded of how very 'unf' a certain tempted-by-the-flesh scene in the film _Black Robe _was, the monkey was convinced. Well, inspired, really. And thus this story was born. So give a huge, HUGE round of applause to Lesera for coming up with this idea. It's 100% hers. It is kind of awesome, isn't it? And hot in a I-can't-believe-the-priest-thing-is-so-unf kind of way, right? Mmmm. And speaking of that..._

**Unf Alert: **_If you thought the last chapter had serious unf-age, well—what follows is definitely for discriminating readers only. If reading about activities of a particularly unf nature makes you uncomfortable, turn back now. _

_For the rest of you, make sure you've got your fire-retardant pajamas on, fresh batteries in your smoke detectors, and a pair of barbecue gloves handy, because this baby's gonna get really hot (as in smokin' hot) really fast. _

_Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter 6: Temptation<strong>

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><p>After dinner and Vespers, Booth retired to his small and spartan chamber to say his own prayers before retiring to bed. It had been a long day, and he knew he needed a good and solid night's rest if he was to properly face the rigors of the next phase of Mistress Temperance Brennan's interrogation. He'd been thinking about her all day and all night―he'd had to push her out of his mind during Vespers more than once. When he knew he should've been intoning the Latin chants with the rest of his Dominican brothers, he'd found himself distracted by thoughts of a completely infuriating female with auburn hair, pale eyes, and one of the keenest minds he'd ever come across in all his travels, among both men and women.<p>

_This woman stands out from all the others, _he thought, _because she is her own woman. She defers to no one. She never has, and she never will. She belongs to no one. Michael Stires must be_―_just as she said_―_a fool of epic proportions if he possibly thought she'd let him have his way with her while she had a breath left in her body. _Booth shook his head as he recalled the way Brennan described how she had turned the tables on the saddler. _This woman...Mistress Brennan...she will never be anyone's mistress, that woman. Brennan. _He closed his eyes as her name reverberated in his mind. _Brennan. Her sharp tongue sets her apart as well_, he thought grimly, as he recalled how her contribution to their latest exchange had riled him up so much that he'd unexpectedly dismissed her before he'd been ready to do so.

_But it's not like she's right_, he thought. _She doesn't know me or a damn thing about my life. That little hellcat can go to blazes for all I care. She may be smart and well-spoken and self-confident, and maybe even speak French, but she's never done what I've had to do, been where I've traveled, or faced the challenges that I've overcome. I'm one of the youngest Inquisitors ever appointed by the Holy See. It's not like I'm a simple fishmonger who stumbled into this trade because I was lucky one day. I speak six different languages. I've been everywhere from London to Paris to Rome to Constantinople and back again. I've been blessed by the Holy Father himself, and if Cardinal Pole has his way, I know he sees that one day I might even have robes of scarlet red like his own...not that I'm sure __I__ want that. I think I'd be just as content to take up a professor's chair in Paris or Padua, but fine. Whatever path fate puts me on, I'll accept it...since that's what I've always done. But whatever my future holds, I'm quite certain it has nothing to do with Mistress Temperance Brennan, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let her make me feel like less of a man because of the path in life I've had to travel._

Laying in his bed in his sparsely-furnished cell, Booth stared at the wooden crucifix on the wall and sighed again as he once more tried to push the all-consuming thoughts of the midwife from Marylebone out of his mind.

_I need to think_, Booth reminded himself. _I need to concentrate and strengthen my resolve and continue to pray to St. Jude for strength and patience. Eventually, sleep will come. It will. I know it will. I just need to stop thinking about her. I need to take control of this situation, push away the emotions she's seemed to stir up in me, and ignore them. It's not like she's anyone special. There's absolutely no reason why she should have this effect on me, so enough._

But, try as he might, Booth couldn't rid his mind of her, the heretic woman Temperance Brennan, who'd defied him the way he had seen no woman—or, for that matter, man—defy an inquisitor. He'd assisted in a dozen other inquisitions since his return from Rome some ten months earlier, and while he had seen several of the accused heretics lash out verbally against their accusers and the friars who tried them for the offenses against God, he had never, _ever _seen anyone conduct themselves the way this strange woman did.

_But, of course_, a voice echoed in his head. _Of course, __she'd__ be different. Of course, she'd try the patience of a saint. Hell, probably she'd try the patience of even the Lord Himself if she had the opportunity to do so. They'd probably end up debating the historical veracity of the Resurrection and her skepticism in the reality of such a process before she'd ever fall to her knees to pray and give Him homage as just about everyone else in Christendom would do. My God, that woman_―_I don't think I can think of a single thing that can get her to her knees, and get her to shut up since she just always, __always__ has to fight at every turn and on every issue. Nothing, __nothing__ can ever go easy with her, it seems. Damn her._

In other inquisitions, he'd heard the accused heretics and witches lash out, uttering foul, obscene things. Sometimes they were trite and repeated the words of Luther about the failure of good works to provide grace and how the soul could only be saved by an individual belief in faith of God alone by man or woman. Others, sometimes, were silent, and said nothing as they waited with a crazed look in their eyes for the flame of the Inquisition's stake and fire pit to claim them so they could be propelled into what they thought was a type of revered martyrdom. On occasion, he'd heard things that he'd never heard before, and those he found to be the most interesting cases. One time, he found himself so amused by the creativity of the heretic's curses as the woman called upon him slurs in Latin about his bastard parentage as the offspring of a zucchini and a basket of fresh-picked strawberries that he found the ridiculousness of the situation could only be answered with him laughing at them.

After helping those who'd sinned, confessed, and chosen to accept the course of appropriate penance for their transgressions, and thereby helping to bring these troubled souls back to the bosom of the Holy Church, and seeing those who could not or would not be so helped, Booth had come to realize that the foulness of the heretic's acts and words was part of the power of the heresy. It could tempt even a strong man, the tendrils of blasphemy worming their way into even the strongest, most faithful heart, and he knew he was not immune from it.

_Confession._

She was strong-willed—this much he knew already. At first, it seemed that maybe he'd broken through her willfulness, but after the way things had ended between them that afternoon, there was no doubt in Booth's mind that any progress they made had been wiped away in the emotional exchange during the few pivotal moments before he'd had the sense of mind to leave the room and have the guards to return her to her cell so that he could gather his thoughts and retake control of both himself and the situation.

_Brennan...her case...it's going to stall unless I secure her cooperation,_ Booth thought. _And to do that... I need her trust. I need...I need to think of a way to gain her trust. Maybe...maybe if I offer to hear_ _her confession, perhaps that might show her that I can listen to her without passing judgment? Perhaps then she'll see that I can render counsel to her and to keep her confidence and get her to understand that I'm more than a mere servant of the Holy Inquisition? Hmmm..._

As Booth lay back against his pillow and stretched his back out in an arch against the meagre comfort offered by his straw mattress, he felt a drowsy malaise finally begin to settle over him. He yawned once, rubbed his jaw, and then swallowed as he shifted in his bed.

As he made himself comfortable, for some reason, the image of Brennan popped into his mind again.

_Brennan and confession_, he thought. _It's a good idea. A solid one, actually. It's most definitely the best idea I think I've had for some time. I think it's a good plan with which we should proceed, and I mustn't forget to do it. First thing in the morning, before we begin our next interrogation, I'll offer to hear her sins and shrive her._

As he went over the plan in his head, another image flickered in his mind. He thought of Brennan and himself and the confessional. Specifically, he imagined himself in the confessional, seated behind a screen, staring straight ahead as she walked in and sat down in the penitent's chair. Glancing through the screen out of the corner of his eye, he saw her there, her face only somewhat obscured by the closely-woven wicker lattice-work of the screen. He saw distorted and shadowed her face through the screen, but even partially obscured, he knew it was her. It had to be her. With the straight angle of her jaw, her thin, delicate lips, and her slender, shapely neck making her disposition look anything but sorrowful or meek or submissive—it could _only _be her. Though she sat in the penitent's chair, he knew her repentant demeanor was a façade. He knew it, but still...somehow...she was there, and that was what was important.

And, then, he saw her lift her head, and he felt his heart stop beating when he saw her eyes. More than anything, what shone through the confessional screen and moved him the most was the way her pale eyes shimmered behind the screen.

_Those eyes. _

The way she had looked at him, he could feel her gaze penetrate him, probing and prodding at him. She was looking for him, searching with each sweep of those eyes. And, he knew, when she found him, she'd use those same eyes to look him over, to work him over really, with those eyes of hers. She'd look at him almost as if he was some type of scientific experiment, and she'd study him, assessing him as she tried to determine his strengths and weaknesses. Booth knew, in that very moment, that those eyes of hers would be the death of him.

_Heaven help me._

Instantly, the single thought made him feel it again. There it was. She'd done it again. Now, despite his best efforts, merely the thought of her stare had caused his back to tingle with what he could only describe some type of squirmy feeling he got when she looked at him with that crooked half-grin of hers. It was followed by a strange gut-clenching, navel-tugging, stomach-flipping sensation he felt when she spoke, her voice somewhat husky, her thin and pale pink lips forming words so pointedly and precisely that it was like talking to another canon lawyer, except one who had been pressed into the Devil's service to cast the bright, soul-saving truth of the Holy Spirit into shadow.

_No. _

_God help me, no._

Those eyes of hers unwound him, boring into him as if they could see right into his heart. They were pale, and cool in color, and while they reminded him of icicles, they were not cold. In fact, a fire smoldered behind them, the same way a laughter seemed to flicker at the edges of her speech. Even though she had challenged him, insulting his holy office as well as the Holy Church which he served, he couldn't seem to shake the feeling that there was something curiously, well, likeable about her. She was interesting—strong, clever, confident and well-spoken—and she fascinated him.

_Oh, God help me_, he finally admitted to himself. _It's true. She fascinates me. I've never...I-I...oh, God, no. That woman...and her eyes. They'll be the end of me. I know it. I just know it. That woman and her eyes._

_Those eyes. _

_Her eyes. _

_Brennan's eyes. _

_Brennan._

He couldn't dismiss the notion that, sitting there in chains, the late-morning sun streaming into the room and blinding her a little as she sat there, she'd been watching him intently. Studying...assessing...and to complete her survey of his personage, he knew it...he just _knew _it, she was undressing him with those damn bewitching eyes of hers.

_Oh, God._

The thought of it—of her undressing him—sent that strange cacophony of sensations surging through him again. He swallowed and tried once more to ignore the prickling sensation in his lower back, a strange feeling that sent little tingles, like static, traveling down his arms and legs. Worse, he felt a raw, insistent tugging sensation low in his gut, right behind his belly button, and he knew his body was rebelling against him. His flesh, his sinful mortal flesh, was vulnerable to her heretical, blasphemous guile, and it was betraying him.

_That's my weakness, _he told himself. _Oh, Lord and all His angels help me. She was...she's right. I am just a man. But, I can't be. There's...there's more to me than that. I'm more than the sum of the whole of my parts. I can't just be a slave to my flesh. I can't...she can't...I can't let her use this against me. Damn it, why is this happening? Why? It's not just because I'm a man with feelings and wants to deny. There's more to it than that. There has to be. I've spent thirty years on this Earth, and never felt this way. That means...I've...this woman. Brennan. It's got to be her, not me. That is, there's more than one efficient proximate cause underlying your responses to this woman, _he told himself. _Think about it. You're an intelligent, well-educated logical individual. It's not just because you're a man and she's a woman...and if it's not...oh, God. I'm...God help me._

He knew he'd experienced such responses to other women over the years, though never with the intensity that he felt under the piercing gaze of the pale-eyed midwife from London's St Marylebone parish.

_I have to remain in control_, he thought, chanting it as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. _I have to remain in control and not let her use this against me. She can't ever know...not ever. I'll...that'll be the end of me if she ever finds out. I can't...I have to control this thing...whatever this thing is. I have to take control of it, and be strong...and not think of her. I can't think of her in any way but as a penitent needing my help to return to the path of righteousness so that her immortal soul isn't damned to the fires of hell of all eternity._

He took a long breath and thought again of the idea of being her confessor, and sitting in the confessional as she knelt behind the screen. He relaxed his still closed eyes, and the image of her once more coalesced in his mind's eye as he heard her voice echo in his thoughts and slowly it became clear that his thoughts would be in any way redeeming this night.

"_In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, amen." she said quietly, crossing herself. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been a year and ten months since my last confession."_

"_Yes, my dear. I'm here. Speak. Tell me your sins," he replied quietly, his voice almost shaking as he was unable to tear his eyes away from hers. "All of them. Tell me everything."_

"_There's only one sin that I've come to confess," she began._

"_Yes?" he pressed. "What is it?"_

"_I've committed the sin of self-abuse, Father," she said gravely. "Of seeking to find self-gratification through unchaste thoughts. And, I've done it repeatedly."_

"_What unchaste thoughts have you had?" he asked her, his heart almost jumping up into his throat as he felt his excitement grow with each blasphemous word she uttered. "More, Brennan, tell me more," he almost begged._

"_I've thought lustfully about a man who is not my husband," she replied. He could hear her breathing, her words coming almost in sighs._

"_Who is this man about whom you have had lustful, unchaste thoughts?" he inquired, his voice yet steady though he felt his heart begin to pound in his chest._

_He saw her look down and away, her bright eyes disappearing from view as she hesitated. She threaded and unthreaded her fingers self-consciously before bringing them together again, palm-to-palm, on the tiny ledge on the other side of the latticed screen. She shook her head as if in some sort of silent debate with herself, and then raised her eyes once more, this time meeting his gaze directly._

"_There's only one man that could make me feel this way," she said. "Who could make me act this way, to give into temptation."_

"_Who?" he pressed her._

"_Don't you know, Father Seeley?" her smooth response came. "It could only be one person that could ever make me feel this way."_

"_Who, Mistress?" he groaned. "Tell me."_

"_It's you, Father," she said, her voice strong and clear, with only the slightest waver as she uttered the word 'Father.' "I've had lustful, unchaste thoughts of you...many, many times."_

_His mouth fell open as his heart leapt at her words. "I understand, my dear. Now, so I can give you true absolution, you must tell me everything," he croaked._

"_Everything?"_

"_Yes," he affirmed. "Everything. You must tell me __everything_."

"_Everything," she repeated, this time her voice becoming softer, but yet somehow with a vaguely firmer edge to it._

"_Yes, everything," he said._ "_What sort of unchaste, impure thoughts of me did you have?" His breath nearly caught in his throat as his right hand migrated to the space between his legs._

"_I want to tell you everything," she nodded. "I want there to be nothing between us. So, know this...I thought of you, Father. I thought of taking you into my bed," she whispered. "And you taking me, possessing me there...completely and totally. Mind, body, and soul...but, especially my body. I thought of you taking me and calling out my name and claiming me as yours. You wanted that, Father. You wanted me, and you took me. And, it felt so good. So, very, very good. You wanted me, and we did unspeakable things, Father. Things that two human bodies aren't supposed to be able to do, and yet, we found some way to do them, Father. And, when we were done...the pleasure, the ecstasy we took and found in one another. It was wonderful, Father. It was so sinful. Surely...I know I'll be damned to hell for all eternity. But, how you made me feel...it was all worth it, Father. And, so I've thought of these things, and I've touched myself in a lustful, impure way, Father, hoping to feel that way again. And again. And again. Many times...over and over and over again."_

He felt a raw, hot surge of desire tingle through him as he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut and grunting aloud as if to rid his mind of both the sight and sound of Brennan, kneeling before him in confession.

The night was warm—hot, even—and as Booth lay in bed, the wool blanket hanging off the edge of the thin straw mattress, his night shirt hitched up over his knees as he tried to let the air circulate in his tiny room. Unable to rid his mind of the thought of her, yet unable to chase away the strange sensations he felt in his body, he sat up in his bed, propping the old, dusty feather pillow behind his shoulders as he looked down and saw his nightshirt tented by his hard, rebellious flesh.

_Oh, Jesus, _he said to himself. _No. This isn't right. It's not right for me to think of her this way. To let her make me think this way. I'm weak. I must be strong. I must be virtuous. I must...I must. I __must__..._

The more his mind resisted, the harder his flesh became. He leaned his head back and growled.

"No," he hissed, chastising himself with gritted teeth. "No, no, _no_..."

But the fact of the matter was, he knew what was happening, and why, and he feared for himself in that moment because he'd been in this situation before, and it had almost cost him his soul.

There had been one time when he was a student at the university in Padua, just nineteen years of age. He'd journeyed outside of his normal environs—the boundary of which was marked on one end by the university's buildings and, on the other, the Dominican house a few miles away—to visit a bookbinder's shop to see about having a treasured volume of his repaired. Along the way, he'd passed through a district of taverns and inns, and his curiosity got the best of him despite the warning of the other learned men he studied with to avoid the area lest he put his soul at risk. And, on the way back, after dropping off his volume of Josephus for rebinding, he stopped into one of the taverns to quench his thirst, having become much in need of a simple pint after such a long walk. After pounding back a couple of strong ales, he'd ventured out again, his inhibitions somewhat suppressed and his confidence artifically emboldened by the effects of drink. He was rounding a corner into an alley when a buxom, blond-haired woman stepped out and into his path.

"_Aye," she said with a crooked grin, reaching her hand out and brushing her fingers across his chest. "You're a handsome one, Brother."_

"_Father," he corrected her. He was puzzled that such a woman would be so forward with him, clad as he was in the white robe and black woolen overcloak of a Dominican brother. There could have no doubt in the woman's mind that he was a monk. Yet, still, she accosted him with a tempting glint of stubborn determination in her eye._

"_Then, bless me, Father, for I have sinned," she said, her hand falling from his chest as she reached for his hand with a cheeky laugh. "And I want to sin some more." She flashed her eyebrows suggestively. "I'll call ya whatever you want...Father, Brother, Daddy...whatever you want, love. Just come with me. Come with Sister Hannah, for that's what you can call me, if it would help." She stopped and looked down at his hand as she gave him a toothy grin. "My. my. How lovely you are. How handsome God's made you. Your body...wow. You have long, thick, fingers, Father," she said, stroking the pads of her fingertips over the tops of his knuckles. "I bet you have other endowments which are similarly long and thick, and if you just want to come with Sister Hannah towards this quiet little spot I know, we can see how well-endowed God made you, ehh? For, that's who I can be if you want me to be...sister, mother, daughter. Anyone, everyone. So, just tell me who, love...and come with me. As I said, I know a spot, and it's not far from here, this place I know. It's even got a spot of shade under a fig tree. So, come with me, love, and I promise you won't be disappointed." _

_He narrowed his eyes, but, for reasons he did not completely understand, he didn't pull away. He felt her touch burn his skin like a hot brand, and her blue eyes glittered as she looked at him._

"_Come on, Father," she said, her voice low and smooth like silk as she pulled his hand towards her mouth, brushing her lips over the flat of his fist before darting her tongue out and licking his hand. "Come with me. Give in. Give in just this once. It won't hurt anyone. And, I won't tell anyone, I swear. All you need is a coin, and I can show you just how much of a place heaven on earth actually is. Trust me. Come with me. I'll touch you in ways you never thought you could be touched until you're screaming my name. Hell, if we do this right, you won't even remember your own name by the time we're done. So, come on, love. Come with me. For an hour, just an hour, be mine. I'll make it worth your while. I promise. So, give in. Come on, love. You know you want to..."_

He blinked, shaking away the memory as he stared at the ceiling of his modest cell, the faint orange glow of the burning taper flickering on the desk in the corner.

Booth grimaced at the thought of how many hours he spent in the confessional, ridding himself of the lusts that he felt poisoning him in the wake of his confusing alleyway encounter with the buxom blonde prostitute who had almost tempted him that evening in Italy. But, he'd never given into the sins of flesh up to that point in his life, and he wasn't about to risk his soul for something as cheap and tawdry like that.

He'd labored hard, praying long and fervently for the strength and the discipline to overcome the feelings that he felt long after that fleeting run-in, gone to confession, and done penance for his transgressions. He vowed never to think of the encounter ever again and pushed the memories out of his mind. And, for a while, it worked. For a couple of years, he'd managed to endure, with only minor and occasional moments of weakness. But his fortitude was tested again a few years later...in Paris.

After completing his studies in Padua, but before returning to Italy, Booth spent two years in France, lecturing in canon law at le Collège de Sorbonne, the theological college of the Université de Paris. He lived in a boarding house for the theological faculty, and shared a room with another Englishman—the brother who made the room assignments assuming that, despite the fact that the young canon lawyer spoke fluent Italian and French, he would get on better with another Englishman—named Brother Jack Hodgins. At first, he'd rather disliked Brother Jack, whose sarcasm and open rebellion against authority annoyed Booth, who'd found Jack's constant complaints about the corruption of power in the Church to be tiresome at best and downright offensive at times. But over time, Booth came to have a grudging respect for his curly-locked, scruffy-bearded roommate, whose wide-ranging interests, endless curiosity and remarkable brilliance left Booth dazzled.

Booth had come in late one evening after a particularly long day of instruction and supervising debates between his students, only to find that Jack was not the only one in the room. He'd opened the door, a taper in his hand, and found Jack in bed, a woman laying beneath him with her legs spread, a hank of fabric between her teeth. Jack was naked, his backside illuminated by the light of the candle burning on the desk, and Booth watched as a bead of sweat dribbled down Jack's spine as he rolled his hips back and forth, thrusting into the woman who writhed below him. Booth stood in the doorway for a moment, silent and unmoving in his surprise, before closing the door behind him. The soft sound of the latch did not disturb either of them, and Booth stood against the door, watching. He found himself fascinated by the woman―a young and buxom lass with dark brown hair and pale creamy skin who Jack called Clarissa―and the way her hand fisted the bedsheet, her grip tightening and loosening again each time Jack entered her. He felt a strange quivering sensation in his gut and a tightening feeling in his groin, but he did not pay them any mind in that moment. A minute or two later, the woman leaned her head back and grunted, her mouth opening as the roll of fabric fell away. Moments later, Jack thrust into her one last time, his face tightening into a grimace as his body shuddered, and then relaxed completely as he collapsed onto her.

Booth glanced at the taper burning in the corner of his Westminster cell and remembered the two other times that he walked in on his fellow lecturer and the woman. He asked him about the woman one day, as he sat on his bed watching Brother Jack pack his meager belongings into a satchel at the end of a term. The young man had decided to leave the Sorbonne and give up his vows as a member of the Order of St. Dominic. He explained that he had injured his shoulder moving some casks of ale in the boarding house's cellar, and that this young woman had offered to help massage away the pain. "One thing led to another," he said with a wry grin. "And, now, I'm happier than I've ever been. It's the right choice, Seeley. I know it in my heart, I just know it. I'm going to be happy with Clarissa...and the sex won't be too bad either."

Over the years, Booth had forgotten about Brother Jack, but he never forgot about what he saw those nights he stumbled upon the friar engaged in very un-friarlike activities. Nor did he ever forget the way he had felt watching Jack and his woman, or the way he felt each time he thought about those scenes in his mind's eye.

Above all, he remembered the way the woman's face looked in the moments before the encounters ended: her features suddenly slack, the creases in her forehead smoothing away as her mouth fell open in scarcely-suppressed groans or gasps. He remembered the way she'd held her mouth in those moments.

_That woman. Her mouth._

He closed his eyes, but in the darkness of his mind's eye, he could not escape the twinkling pair of pale eyes that stared back at him in the interrogation room that morning. He saw her lips part, the tip of her tongue dart out between them, wetting them a little before disappearing back into her mouth.

_Her mouth. _

He remembered those pale, pink lips—so thin, almost too thin, that gave her a certain severe look about her—but more so even than her lips, he could not forget her smile. That strange smile she'd had, a sort of half-smile whereby her lips parted only on one side of her mouth, revealing her bright, straight, strong teeth. That smile unnerved him, as if she were laughing at a joke that he could not hear. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, even looking up at the figure of Christ in His agonizing Passion as He hung crucified on the wall, but he could not rid his mind of her. Nor, could he ignore the fact that he wanted nothing more in that moment than to see that mouth, those lips, fall open in a groan as he lay between her thighs, rocking himself into her the way he saw Brother Jack do to the woman he saw him with.

_This cannot be, _he told himself. _I want...no...but yes...oh no...I want her to touch me...I want to feel those eyes on me...to feel those lips touch me...to touch mine...to...no...this cannot be...this cannot...no..._

An image flashed before his eyes of her, kneeling at his feet as if in prayer, except she was not praying. She was worshipping in a sense, but the object of her adoration was his hard flesh. He imagined himself lifting his robes, untying the drawstring of his leggings and letting them fall loosely to his feet as she reached her hands up and lifted his hard flesh to her mouth the way she'd swore she'd never take any part of Michael Stires into her. In that moment, she didn't think twice as she smiled and pulled him to her, wrapping her moist lips around him, pulling him deeper and deeper into her hot and wet mouth, her tongue laving along the underside of the tip of him and slowly, torturously down to the root.

"Unnnnnggth..." he groaned aloud, squeezing his eyes shut at the sensation that just the very thought made him feel. "Oh, God, Brennan―"

He couldn't rid himself of the sight of her, nor could he rid himself of the way she made him feel. It was painful, how hard his flesh had become, and the harder he became, the more painful it was. He reached down and clasped his hand around himself, unable to resist doing to the one thing he knew was wrong to do, but yet he knew was the only way to end the excruciating pain he felt.

_I shouldn't...she shouldn't affect me this way...make me this way. I've never been this week, given in...but her. She...the way she makes me feel...oh, God, Brennan_, he mentally groaned. He closed his fingers around his shaft, pulling his hand a little towards himself before loosening his grasp again. _Maybe just. _He sighed. _No. _It wasn't enough. _It's not good enough. It won't be good enough. It'll never be good enough. _He needed more. _I need more. I need..._

_I need her. _

_I need more. _Again he tightened his grip, and again he tugged on himself, dragging the smooth skin back and forth over the length of his flesh, sucking in a sharp breath at the sensation. He saw her smiling at him, grinning that half-grin and staring at him with those cool, pale eyes that saw right through him, right under his clothes. He moved his fist up and down his rigid length, the loose skin sliding over the now-swollen tip before slipping back to rest behind the head. He felt something welling up inside of him, but he wasn't sure what it was.

"Ohhhh," he groaned. "Ohhhhhh, _God_...no...no...ohhhh..."

He leaned his head back and thought of her, sitting before him in that hard wooden chair in a dark blue dress, a white shift peeking out around the neckline. _I wonder what she looks like under that dress, maybe just in that white linen shift. What does she look like? What does she feel like? _He thought back to what Brother Jack's woman's chest looked like, her full breasts rolling up and down again with each hard thrust, her tight, erect nipples silhouetted in the warm candlelight. He remembered watching Brother Jack reach for those breasts, and the way the woman sucked in a hard breath the moment his thumb and forefinger closed around the point of her nipple, but soon it wasn't Jack's Clarissa that was touching those breasts. Suddenly, Jack and Clarissa were gone, and it was just him and just Brennan. They were alone and together, and they were naked, and he was touching her just as Jack had touched Clarissa. They were his hands on her breasts, and this time it was Brennan who was the one who was writhing beneath him in pleasure. It was Booth and Brennan―just them―and she was moaning _his _name in ecstasy.

"_Booth..." _

For a fleeting moment, his brow furrowed at the sound of his family name falling from her lips in a rising moan. But the creases in his forehead smoothed as a long, breathy sigh passed from his lips and he jerked his curved fingers along his shaft and felt his balls hitch. The last image of them together quickly disappeared to be replaced with another. This time, he saw her, sitting there in that chair in front of him, but suddenly, she had no chains around her ankles or her wrists. He saw her grin at him again and then stand up. She was fairly tall—not as tall as he was, but tall for a woman—and strong in a way, though she was slender. He saw her walk towards him, tugging her skirts up a little so that she did not trip over them in her bare feet. As she approached him, he felt her eyes bore into him, and he moved his hand harder and more quickly over his flesh.

"_Oh, God, Booth_," she groaned. "_Booth. Touch me. Touch me. Please touch me. Booth."_

He swore he could smell her as he felt his groin tighten with each tugging stroke he gave himself. His breathing became uneven, his breaths rising and falling in heavy pants before he leaned his head back and grunted. He saw her reach for him, the long, slender fingers of her hand closing around his engorged flesh, and for several moments he was quite sure he couldn't breathe. He felt the skin drag hard across the length of his shaft, from base to swollen tip, now fully unhooded given his intense arousal.

He saw himself in his bed, the very one he was laying in at that moment, but instead of his back against the pillow, the midwife Mistress Brennan lay beneath him, her ivory skin glowing in the darkness, her legs spread apart carelessly. He imagined himself nestled between those legs, his knees digging into the crunchy straw mattress, leaning into his hands as she reached for his swollen flesh, her pale eyes staring back at him.

"_I touched myself, Father," she whispered in a broken voice, "as I thought of you...as I had those impure thoughts that I know will damn me to hell for all eternity. But, I don't care. Because, I want this. I want you. I want you to touch me, and taste me, and take me. Does that make me evil? Because if it does, I don't care. I thought of you and wanted you_―_I want you still. I wanted all of you. And your body, lain on top of mine, heavy and sweaty and quite wonderful with your manhood inside of me, and the way you came into me, again and again, and the sounds you made and the ones you made me make, and the way your sweaty skin stuck to mine as our bodies moved as one towards something that was greater than either one of ourselves, and thinking of it, of you, in this way_—_I nearly drove myself mad wanting you. You see, Father?" _

_Her breaths came hard, heaving as she knelt, her hands clasped together, gazing through the screen at him, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. _

"_I touched myself," she said. "All the time wishing, praying really, forming the notion in my mind that it was not me touching myself, but that it was you, and your body making me feel this way."_

_She looked down and to the side, averting her eyes for a moment before she raised her gaze once more. "Can you understand that? I had no choice, really. I needed some relief. I felt...I felt...I feel like I've been set on fire, and no matter what I do...I can get no relief. I can't quench this...this fire that's burning me up from the inside out. I can't...not unless...not unless I take what relief I could...and so I did." She stopped and gave him a coy look as she asked, "Am I a wicked woman, Father, for feeling this way? Is there no hope for me? Am I to be damned for feeling this way and doing these things...again and again and again? Am I a lost soul for pleasuring myself this way...because of how you've made me feel? What you've driven me to do?"_

He shook his head. _No. _

"Noooo," he moaned as he shook his head fervently, his sweat-soaked scalp dampening his pillow. "No, no, no." For a time, he wasn't quite sure if any of it was real. "Brennan...oh, God...Brennan―ohhhh, woman," he murmured. "What are you doing to me?"

He realized in that moment that, while the only warmth that was surrounding him was the warmth of his own hand, his moans and cries were real.

_Brennan―_

He stroked himself once, twice, and three more times firmly before it seemed that every muscle in his body had tensed all at once, and after the briefest moment of the most incredible ecstasy, every one of them relaxed again, except apparently one, which pumped him from within, the ropy, gooey silver fluid of his manhood dribbling over his fingers and spurting onto his belly, splattering his navel with his emission before the last lazy pulses dripped onto the crisp dark curls at the base of his now-softening length.

"Oh, Lord,"he said, unsure at that moment whether a sound had actually left his lips. "Oh, God."

_What have I done? What has this woman done to me? What's wrong with me? _He leaned his head back and swallowed hard, his breaths falling shallowly as he clenched his eyes shut. _What is this thing I have done? What's happened to me? God help me..._

_Brennan..._

_God help me._

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><p><strong>AN: **_Well, well, well. Hmmm. What can we possibly say about that? __The man has issues, eh? Well, we sure hope he finds a way to deal with them. (Because obviously the praying isn't helping.)_

_And, yet again, more canonical characters cropped up in this chapter. Did ya like that? *_wink_*_

_Well, after that little experience, are you good people interested in seeing what happens next? Well, we can't wait to show you. If you thought this chapter was, well, interesting, you'll really like the next couple of chapters, too. (Oh, hell—you'll really like the rest of the story.) But those next couple of chapters are gonna be really, really...hmm...well, good. /cocky button off _

_(I think the switch on my cocky button broke. Dammit.)_

_Anyway, well...we've said this before, but this piece is way, WAY different than anything either of us have ever done, and we really, REALLY need to know what you people think of this piece thus far. Really. Preferably before you run off to take that cold shower._

_But do take the time to leave us a review. Go ahead and click that wee review button down there. Oh, please. Don't be coy. You know the one. Yes, darlings, that one right there._

_Thanks._


	7. Easing the Pain

**The Inquisitor**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128  
><strong>Rated: <strong>M  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox via adverse possession. ::blinks:: Okay, not really. But, you get the gist.

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><p><strong>AN: **_What can we tell you? You don't want to hear from us about blah-blah-blah. You want to know what's happening with Father Seeley and Mistress Brennan. Well, read on._

**Unf Alert: **_Oh yes. Unfness follows. If you don't like reading about, you know, unf, or shouldn't be, stop now. If you do, then stop reading this A/N and move on to the good stuff!_

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><p><strong>Chapter 7: Easing the Pain<strong>

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><p>The next morning when Booth woke up, he was a mess. His head hurt, his heart was racing, and he doubted that he'd ever actually fallen asleep the previous night. All he could do was think about <em>her<em>. She was everywhere he looked, everywhere he went. It was almost as if he'd become consumed by her. And, it scared him. It scared him badly.

For three days, Booth found one reason or another to put off returning to the interrogation room where he might have to face her. He didn't know what might happen if he had to face her...to be near her until he was certain that he could control his emotions and control himself in general. And, during all that time, for three days and three nights, he both dreaded and longed to be in her presence again. The actions she'd driven him to had shaken him, and he wasn't certain how to handle the situation—let alone how to go about doing his job of procuring a confession from her. And, given the fact of what the next part of her interrogation entailed—looking for physical proof that would confirm or deny her claim that she wasn't a witch...well, Booth had always considered himself a man who knew his limits. And, thinking back on what limits just the mere memory...the mere thought of her had caused him to do in some futile attempt to reassert control over the situation, he knew he'd be in desperate trouble if he tried to face the real woman face-to-face without preparing himself as best he could. Mistress Temperance Brennan—or, more simply, Brennan, as he'd come to think of her since that night when he'd let his fantasy world be taken over by her—had pushed him to the edge of his limits. He was stretched as far as he could go, and he knew it would only take one little thing to make him finally snap.

_And, if I'm going to snap, I'll be damned if it's going to be in the interrogation room_, he thought. _So, we'll wait until I've got this...well, whatever this __thing__ is between us...we'll wait until I've got it under control and there's no further risk of me giving into temptation again where she's concerned. It happened once and that was a mistake. It won't be happening again. I've made this decision. It just won't, so_—

Each day, he got up long before the call brought he and the rest of the Dominican brothers to Matins. Each day, he got up, restless and more sleep deprived than he had been the previous night. He did his best as he went through the motions of doing what was expected of him—all but continuing Brennan's interrogations.

_She won't get the better of me_, he vowed to himself each morning as he tried to spend extra hours in thoughtful prayer and calm meditation—although it wasn't like he could do penance for the sinful things that he'd already done because of her since he hadn't dared to go to confession yet. _But, still. I will. I'll confess and be shriven and do penance...and will avoid whatever leads me to sin, including her. Because, she won't get the better of me. She just won't._

Most of the brothers hadn't given Booth's change in behavior a second thought. The previous inquisitors had taken to an interrogation of the midwife from Marylebone that was convenient for them, i.e., inconsistent...at best. Thus, when Booth finally stopped holding multiple interrogation sessions of the accused witch and heretic on multiple days, most of the brothers had just figured that Booth was over the initial enthusiasm that he'd displayed in trying to crack what they all knew was a difficult case...despite his belief that because of his exceptionalism, that things would be any different for him.

And, all the while, as he struggled to put her out of her mind but for getting a confession, he found himself unable to do so. She was everywhere. Every time he closed his eyes and every time he felt his mind begin to wander. It didn't matter if he was praying, eating, reading, trying to fall asleep...it just just didn't matter. She was everywhere. She was everything. The harder he tried, the more Booth knew he was failing to control the situation.

_I can't keep control of a situation when I lost it, apparently, a long time ago...and didn't even realize it_, he thought to himself miserably after he'd retired to his room on the evening of the third day. _I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't concentrate on anything other than her. Oh, sweet Jesus, help me. I want her. I need her. I know it's wrong, and I don't know how or why it's happening, but it is. I'm going mad with the want of her, _he thought._ God, help me. I-I...oh, God, Brennan. God help me._

Finally, feeling as if he had no other choice in the matter, he finally threw off the blanket that lightly covered his sweating body, pulled on his robes, slid into his sandals, grabbed a candle that was burning low on his desk, and made his way as quietly as possible towards the hallway where he knew her cell was located. Eventually, although he didn't really remember _how _he'd gotten there, during the late hours of the third night, he found himself standing in front of her cell door. It was highly irregular, Booth knew, for an inquisitor to seek out a prisoner in their cell at such an hour. But, he needed to see her. He needed to see her and talk with her...and just to be near her. He wasn't sure what would happen or if it would bring him any relief that he so desperately craved, but he didn't know what else to do.

_I need her_, a voice echoed in his mind. _Oh, God...I need her. I need her. I want her. I need her, and I want her. Now. So very much. God_—

Booth roused one of the guards to unlock her cell door and lift the wooden bar that kept her imprisoned securely within the small room's confines. He waited patiently as the young man grumbled, but did as he was told when he realized that Cardinal Pole's well-known favorite had appeared almost out of thin air like the Devil himself was on his tail. When Booth informed the guard that that he need not wait and could return to his slumber, the displeased and still sleepy man's ire dissipated somewhat. As he unlocked the door, Booth stood as patiently as he could, a small tremble in his hand caused the soft light of the candle he held to waver ever so slightly. It was the only sign he was not nearly as calm and collected as he normally appeared to others.

By the time the guard got the door open, and Booth had slipped through the door, and the guard shut it behind them and disappeared down the hallway from whence he'd come, the noise had been enough to cause Brennan to stir from her slumber.

For three days, she'd been confined to her cell with no indication as to when she'd next be called for by Booth to continue the next interrogation session. Initially, she'd been quite pleased with how their latest round of verbal sparring had turned out. It had been _extremely _gratifying to her when she deduced that her words had rattled him badly enough that he'd ended their interrogation unexpectedly and left the room in an emotional huff. But, as the hours had crawled by during the next day—and the only sign she had to mark the passage of time was the rising and setting of the sun in a twelve-hour span bookended by Angela bringing her breakfast and dinner trays—Brennan started to feel another emotional response. It was complicated at first, as she tried to understand the complex emotions she felt as the hours dragged by. However, the one benefit of her imprisonment was that she had _plenty _of time to think. And, so, she was able to discern by the time the sun had finished setting on the evening of the first day that she was annoyed at him. Her annoyance had started because of a mixture of indignation and ire that she felt at being ignored. She didn't take the slight easily because she thought—at the very least, she'd come to believe that Booth had come to realize she wasn't so easily dismissable as some of his brethren had always believed.

She didn't sleep well the first night, as she continued to focus on the slight she felt had been cast on her personage. She could only think about Booth, and the alleged insult she'd suffered at his hands, and the more time that passed, the more she continued to stew in her own proverbial juices. She spent half of her time seething about her perceived insult and the other half of the time planning how she would extract an appropriate type of retribution from Booth once he called for her. She'd decided that she would initially be aloof and cool, and treat him with the same indifference he'd apparently afforded her. Then, only when she had him stirred up into a good emotional lather would she choose to enlighten him as to why she was so vexed with him. Brennan hadn't quite decided what type of apology she would demand from him to ameliorate his transgression, but she reasoned that she'd figure something out by the time she came face-to-face with him once again.

However, as the first day melted into the second, and Brennan had still been left to her own devices, some of her anger softened and slowly evolved into concern as a second idea occurred to her. As the hours continued to tick by with no indication that she would be called before Booth for the second day in a row, she started to wonder that perhaps the reason he hadn't ordered that she be brought from her cell for another interrogation session was because there wasn't going to be another such session.

_Is it really possible that one simple conversation that was slightly emotionally unsettling for him has resulted in him running from me...my case, that is, already? _she'd wondered. _Is he no better than any of the other cookie-cutter inquisitors that they sent to try to break me? If he is, this I was mistaken about him...gravely mistaken. _

As Brennan tried to wrap her mind around the possibility that she could've been so wrong about Booth, the more she began to become emotionally unsettled herself. She had no idea how she could've misjudged the man _that_ badly where he'd simply give up at the first sign of difficulty, tuck tail, and run away from a challenge like her. The more she thought about Booth, and her judgement of him, the more she thought about him, and continued to second and third guess herself about decisions and assessments she'd felt fairly confident about just forty-eight hours earlier. Indeed, by the time that Angela brought her dinner tray to her cell at dusk on the third evening, Brennan hadn't even realized how much time had passed as she sat on her bed, staring at the same spot on the wall, and going over and over in her mind everything she knew and felt about Father Seeley Booth.

Angela, ever the observant individual, tried to draw the young midwife into some type of conversation as she saw the great mental turmoil that Brennan had somehow begun to feel in what Angela saw as a happy respite from the rigours of her interrogation sessions. However, it was clear that Brennan didn't see the pause in her dialogues with Booth as such. If anything, the longer she went without seeing him, the more agitated and terse and unsettled Brennan became. Angela wanted to tell the midwife that no good could come of obsessing about things—or people—that couldn't be changed, but Brennan wouldn't say anything that offered the serving girl an opening to initiate any type of significant conversation beyond 'hello', 'yes', 'no', 'thank you', or 'goodbye.'

And, so, Brennan had found herself left to her own devices for much of the three days and nights that had separated the point in time from when she'd last seen Booth. She'd taken to dozing more than actually sleeping for any significant amount of time—and, then, only out of physical necessity. It was actually during one of those small snatches of restlessness—brief time periods when she rarely actually achieved a deep enough sleep to dream—that she was pulled back into consciousness by the opening of her cell door. She blinked away the sleep from her eyes and glanced to the window wondering how she might've overslept. However, when she saw that the dark inky fingers of the London evening still clung to the sky, confusion caused her brow to furrow as a frown crossed her face. She had only time enough to sit up in bed before the soft light of Booth's candle illuminated the room. Once the door was shut and secured behind them, Brennan took a moment to realize that she wasn't dreaming as the surprise clearly registered on her face when she saw who'd come to interrupt her slumber.

She stared at him for what seemed to be a very long moment that lingered between them. Pale eyes met dark ones, and neither individual was prepared to look away first. Eventually, after several moments of silence heavy with expectation had passed in slow torture for both of them, Brennan refused to break eye contact. But, she did change the rules of the metaphorical game between them when she finally opened her mouth to speak.

"Well," Brennan began, her voice a bit more throaty than normal as she felt the thickness of sleep catch in her throat. "I can't say I wasn't expecting to see you again, but I think I would be lying if I said I haven't spent a lot of time second guessing that original assumption of mine over the past few days."

Booth blinked at her several times before he inclined his head and said, "My apologies. Certain...events have transpired in recent days that have required me to alter my initial plan of action regarding your case. I'm sorry if that was...unsettling to you."

Brennan noticed the very slow and measured diction that Booth was using as he spoke to her. The change in his normal behavior wasn't lost on her perceptive sensibilities. Indeed, it as just another piece of evidence that she added to the pile as she tried to discern what was going on between them. The strange way he spoke to her reaffirmed her initial impression that things were very different between them now as compared to how they'd been when they last saw one another.

_Something's changed_, she thought instantly. _I'm not certain what it is, or why it's changed, or even how...but I can tell. __Something's__ different here. __Something's__ different with him. __Something's _ _different between us. And, whatever it is, it's not just because of me._

"As I said," Brennan eventually responded. "I'd initially been thinking that I'd be seeing you very soon after our last parting. But, given how the last few days have progressed, a small part of me was starting to think that you'd given up on me...on my case that is, and that perhaps the next time I found myself called into the interrogation room, I was fully preparing myself to discover that I'd burned through yet another inquisitor."

Booth's brow furrowed for a moment as he listened to her. _Wait, _he thought. _Was she—no, it couldn't be...was she...had she actually been looking forward to seeing me again? Was she? _He felt a strange warmth pulse in his chest as his heart began to race again. His eyes skimmed over her shadowed features as she sat up in her bed, the cool, gray moonlight bathing one side of her face as the faint, yellowish glow of the candle flickered in her eyes. He felt a shudder pass through him as a brief memory of the dream he'd had three nights earlier_—_and the way her face had been similarly candlelit_—_tugged at his thoughts. _This is real, _he reminded himself. _I'm not dreaming. I'm here. She's here. She's more beautiful than ever. More enchanting than in my dreams. But, I can't forget. In the here and now of things, __this is real__. _He took another step towards her, and as he looked at her, she realized that something shown in his eyes that Brennan didn't recognize, but was curiously drawn to the longer she saw it staring back at her so warmly.

"So, you've been expecting me, then?" Booth asked, as he glanced around the cell and took in her living conditions. Eventually, he decided to set the candle on the wooden table so that he could have free use of his hands as he spoke with her.

Brennan lightly shrugged her shoulders as she eventually responded, "I believe that you were the one who told me we weren't done at the conclusion of our last discussion. I had no reason not to take you at your word in that matter." She paused and then tilted her head as she added in a softer voice, "But, I must admit that I didn't expect that you would necessarily be the one coming to me when our next meeting occurred."

The sharpness in her voice cut at him in a way Booth didn't understand, and when her tone seemed to soften again, he felt decidedly off-kilter, his breath rising and falling nearly in pants as his lungs seemed to struggle to keep up with his pounding heart. _I don't...what's...she's not teasing me, surely. I don't know what she's doing or why, but I know I don't like it. _"I don't lie," he said, a touch of defensiveness coming into his voice.

"I didn't say you did," Brennan told him. "There's no need to be getting emotional about things, Father—especially considering the fact that the last time you did that you wasted a perfectly good opportunity to do what you want with me."

Booth's face flushed, and he drew in a swift breath at her words as he was reminded of the tightness in his groin that was, in part, what had driven him from his bed just minutes earlier.

'_To do what you want with me?' _

The words echoed in his mind as he felt his body rebelling against him again.

_Oh, God, _he thought. _What I want to do with her...to her. _The insistent, firm tugging sensation deep in his gut, low behind his navel, made his jaw tense as he chased away the fleeting image that flashed before his eyes of him, kneeling between her thighs with the hem of her translucent linen shift pushed up to her waist. _I have to do something. I'm going mad with want of her. _He felt a vague tingling sensation in his fingers, a certain restlessness that he couldn't shake. _I want to touch her, to be touched by her. I can't take this much longer. I have to...I want her. I want to touch her...to be inside of her. To feel her all around me. To devour her, and to be devoured by her. _His mouth fell open in a soft, barely-audible sigh as he felt the room spin a couple of times beneath his sandaled feet. _I have to do something, or I'll surely lose my mind. _

Booth glanced down at his hands and saw them quiver in the dim, flickering light of her cell. Even the moonlight seemed inconstant as he looked up and saw the shadow of an oak branch swaying in the wind outside the high, small window of her cell. _Everything is shifting, _he observed grimly. _Nothing is steady. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is sure. _He suddenly was reminded of a summer afternoon when he was a boy, before he was sent away to school, and of hanging from the branch of just such an oak, and the way his fingers ached, then burned and finally shook before he finally lost his grip on the entirely and fell to the hard ground below.

Staring at her for what seemed like another very long moment—in what appeared to be a series of very long moments between them—Booth struggled to retain control of his thoughts and feelings. _She's not going to do this to me again_, he vowed silently. _It's not going to happen. I swear to God...it's just not. _Taking a deep breath, he smiled at her as he tried to give off what he hoped was a calm and confident demeanor. "Again, my apologies. I know this is an extremely unusual situation in which we've both found ourselves. So, if my actions have caused you distress, I'm sorry."

Brennan's brow furrowed as she said, "I'd like to believe you when you say that." The words were out of her mouth before she'd even realized what she'd said, and Brennan blinked wide-eyed at him as she realized that she'd verbalized something that she'd usually had the sense to keep confined to the recesses of her private, internal monologue.

_Oh, my God...why did I just say that out loud? _she asked herself. _I didn't mean to...that is...why did I...oh, damn it._

However, never one to feel shame or abashment because of any of her actions, Brennan refused to try to backtrack and make excuses for herself, her actions, or her words. Instead, she merely drew herself up as tall as she could, given the fact that she was still sitting in her nightgown in her bed, and waited for Booth to respond. She didn't have to wait long for such a response to come.

For the second time in a relatively short period of time, Booth felt the elasticity of his emotions snap at the insinuation that he was a dishonest—and by default, a dishonorable—man. He pursed his lips as he felt his nostrils begin to flare. Staring at her, he cocked his head and said, "That's twice in a relatively limited span of time that you've implied that I'm less than an honest man, Mistress, and I must say that I'm beginning to take offense at such insinuations."

Brennan opened her mouth to say something, but she didn't have a chance to get a word in edgewise as Booth continued speaking without letting her interrupt him.

_Damn this woman, _he thought as he felt his nostrils flare with a swirl of anger and desire that confused him. _How can she make me want to strangle her with my bare hands one minute and strip her clothes off and ravish her the next? _He closed his eyes and tried again to focus his mind on the one thing in that moment he was sure of—that she had insulted his honor. _And if there's one thing a man like me's not supposed to do, it's want to ravish a woman! My God..._

"By indicating that you might not trust my veracity," he said as he stared at her and felt a rush of indignation at her words that fueled on his speech. "You imply that you have reason to distrust someone like me." He paused and stared at her for another moment before he continued, the pitch of his voice rising with passion. "I've done nothing since I met you but gone out of my way to help you in any way I could, Mistress Brennan. Now, what I'd like to know is, after all the respect and kindnesses that I've gone out of my way to afford you—despite the fact that you're an accused witch and heretic who could find herself faced with very few options if I choose to stop acting as your intercessor—what have I done to merit your vitriol?"

As she considered the meaning of his words and had come to realize what he'd just said, her eyes widened in utter surprise. "Respect?" she couldn't help but snort. "Kindnesses? Intercessor?"

"Yes," Booth nodded, annoyed that she was responding to what he'd hoped were civilized overtures on his part and had instantly dismissed them so casually and so...derisively. "What exactly do you think I've done to you that makes you so...hostile towards me?"

"Hostile?" Brennan parroted back as she felt a flare of anger at his haughty and condescending demeanor. _Hostile? _a voice echoed in her head. _You think __I'm__ the one that's being hostile? Well, maybe I am because you've all but ignored me for three days, and then waltz into __my__ cell in the dead of night and expect what...a rousing debate on Aquinas? And, now that I've called you on it, you have the actual gall to chastise me and hide behind your robes again? Is it really back to this? _ _I thought, at the very least, we were done hiding behind clerical cloaks and Inquisitorial offices. I thought...I-I thought that we were at least able to talk to one another as two people...if not equals, at least two people who'd come to some kind of an understanding. God, what a fool I was. _ "You think _I'm _being hostile?" she asked him.

"At the very least you're making things more difficult for me than you need to," Booth replied. "And, I want to know why. Why are you being like this?"

"Because," Brennan suddenly snapped. "Suddenly, you're acting like one of them and...maybe I don't like it. Maybe I expect better from you."

Her words bewildered him a bit as he stared at her and could only ask, "What do you mean 'someone like you?'" He stared at her, refusing to look away. For her part, Brennan couldn't speak because she was afraid she might merely make the situation worse if they continued bickering like this and ended up rousing the whole of the house. As usual, Booth took her silence as a challenge and quickly began to go through the possibilities of cracking what she'd said. At last, when he focused upon what he thought might be her meaning, he stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the triteness of it. Nonetheless, he refused to bow to her, but snapped, "When you said I was 'acting like one of them'...you meant a cleric, didn't you?"

Brennan's nostrils flared, but she still refused to say a word as he pressed on.

"Answer me, Mistress Brennan. Did you mean a cleric?" He took another threatening step towards her bed as he demanded, "_Tell me_."

Her lips curled into a snarl as she finally snapped. "Yes."

"Yes, what?" he prodded her.

"Yes, to all of the above. You're being _exactly _what you are...a cleric, a member of the Holy Mother Church, as you call it, and...an inquisitor. And, I was a fool to think that you were any different. I was a _damn _fool. I've never had any like or trust for either clerics, papists, or members of the Inquisition, and I was foolish to think that you could be any different." She stopped as she gestured around her cell vaguely. "As you can finally see, it's because of all three groups that I've been forced to stay here...away from my home, away from my family, away from everything that was familiar or comforting or that could bring me happiness for a period of almost two months. I blame them for that...just as now I see I should be blaming you because you're no better than any of the others—no doubt what I may have thought in some flight of fancy my brain has obviously taken to embracing to pass some of the time over the last three days."

Booth blinked in surprise. _She was thinking I was different? _He arched an eyebrow at the thought. _Wait—she was thinking about me? _A faint smile appeared on his lips. _She was thinking about me, _he mused. _Thinking about me. About __me__. _He shook away the thought as he could feel her gaze burning into his skin.

He considered her words, some of the anger he'd felt at her earlier words fading away as he glanced around once more and took in the sparsity of her cell, realizing how many hours she must've spent confined between the four walls. For some reason he couldn't quite explain, a part of him ached to make things better for her, and so he said quietly, "I'm sorry if you haven't been dealt fairly since your arrest. You have my word that if there were any...difficulties, there won't be anymore."

At this, Brennan snorted. "And, why would you do that...especially since I've apparently repaid your previous respect and kindnesses so... poorly?"

Booth quickly swallowed a sigh as he refused to let her anger him further. Seizing on the bit of calm he'd somehow managed to stumble upon, he told her simply, "Because, we seek only to bring those souls who have gone off of the path to salvation back into the fold. In doing so, there's no reason why any individual should be treated in any less a compassionate way than our Lord set such a selfless example as he demonstrated we should all look after one another in the Holy Gospels."

He stopped, rubbed his hands over his eyes and then asked, "You may not believe this, but I take no pleasure from seeing you suffer."

Booth placed his hand on her table, dragging his fingertips across the coarse grain, then looked up at her again, unable to resist meeting her eyes as he surveyed the low pallet that served as her bed.

"So, be honest," he said, his gaze falling at last from her eyes to her bruised, chafed wrists, and he felt his teeth ache as his jaw clenched at the thought of seeing her roughly handled by the guards who were her jailors. _Witch or no, _he thought. _Innocent or—well, otherwise_—_it isn't right that good Christians should treat a woman this way. '__Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem others better than themselves.'__ It is not for these men_—_indeed, boys_—_to presume her guilt and treat her this way_. _No one here seems to want to hear her story. Except me._ "The terms of your confinement—are you treated well enough? Is there something I need to know about how you're treated when you are outside my interrogation room? Because, if there is, you only have need to tell me, and I swear that I'll do everything in my power to right it for you. I'll not have any of the souls in my charge handled badly."

_Especially not you, _he added silently. _Not you, of all people_.

Booth paused again, and his voice softened a bit as he asked, "Do you have enough food and drink? Or do you require any medical attention for something? Perhaps..." He stopped and grimaced as he glanced down at the cell's hard wood floor, covered as it was by scented rushes. "If you would like, I could arrange to have a prayer dieu brought in so that you might be able to continue to say your daily absolutions in greater comfort when you kneel."

For some reason, Brennan was touched at his offer. She shook her head slowly and tried to soften the hardness that she knew her words would convey. "I have no need of papist trappings to say my prayers, thank you," she said. "I kneel before God and say my prayers to Him and that's all that I need. But—" she glanced at the _Book of Hours _her father had left her on the small table that sat next to her bed and figured at the very least it might be worth asking for something she did want.

_The worst thing that can happen is that he can say 'no', right, Brennan_? a voice in her head encouraged her. _So, go ahead, and ask._

When her voice still trailed off, Booth sensed an opportunity at hand, and in that moment, he very much wanted to please her. "What is it?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm as he held her steady gaze. "Tell me. What is that you want? What is it that you need? If I can help you in any way, I swear I'll do it."

Brennan stared at his eyes for a minute, and she felt a flood of warmth return when she saw his sincerity. Tentatively, she nodded as she said, "Alright."

"Tell me what you want," he pleaded with her. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts, flooded with a torrent of images that flickered before his mind's eye, all of them awash in the fluttering light of a solitary taper, and all of them centered around the low-set bed before him and the woman who sat in it, her legs covered by a quilt. _What do you want? _he asked her silently, his lips in that moment still, though his eyes shifted from point to point as he felt the now-familiar tingle at the base of his spine. _I want to please you. I want to hear you moan and sigh at my touch. I want to feel you—all of you. To touch you. To be touched by you_. He encouraged her to answer with an upward jerk of his chin. "Tell me," he said. "Please."

"If you truly wish to be of assistance to me," she said in a soft voice that was almost no greater than a whisper, "You could be of some use, bringing me both a measure of comfort and pleasure if you...if you would procure a copy of the Bible for my own personal use."

As soon as Booth considered her words, a strange look crossed his face. _She can't be serious, _he thought. _Except she is. She knows a little French, and more than a little Aquinas. God, help me, but what type of exceptional creature sits in front of me? _He stared at her, noting that not even a hint of laughter was to be found in the blue-green swirl of her eyes. "Aside from the fact that it is forbidden for laypeople to have access to the Holy Bible, why would you want a copy if you can't even read what it says?"

Brennan made a face at the words she considered to be insulting, and then some of her softness was gone in an instant as she sharply retorted, "I can read."

"Oh?" Booth said, still skeptical as he came to wonder if the only thing left to surprise him would be if she, for once, didn't surprise him. "Really? So now you're going to tell me that you can read Latin, yes? Which perhaps I should have guessed by your impressive familiarity with the works of Aquinas. Since, as any well-read individual knows, Aquinas read in the original Latin is an experience that can't quite be replicated in English or any other language." He smirked. "Though, having read him translated into Italian, I think I can safely say that it's probably the best alternative to the original in case you're wondering."

"Yes," Brennan said, narrowing her eyes at his obnoxious linguistic one upmanship but unwilling to let him see her waver. "Better in English vernacular than in Latin, of course, but I can read in either language."

Chuckling in disbelief at the surprise—and the feeling it evoked that he could not describe as other than pleasant—Booth asked, "You...know Latin?"

"_Etiam ego narro Latin_," Brennan responded fluidly. At her words, a look of disbelief crossed Booth's face causing her to chuckle as she added, "_Es vos admiratio?_"

Slowly, Booth nodded. "_Quisnam doctus vos?_"

"_Meus abbas,_" she responded with a small shrug of her shoulders. "Since I was fourteen. He thought to ease the loss of my mother in childbirth by filling my days with learning of several subjects."

Booth was quiet for a moment, his face blanching somewhat as he felt a sinking feeling in his gut. _Her mother, _he thought morosely. _She lost her mother at fourteen. _The realization hit him like a hammer. _She was fourteen when she first attended a birth on her own, after two years attending alongside her mother, who was herself a midwife. That birth—her first solo outing, as it were—was...oh, God. That's it, isn't it? Her first delivery must've been the birth of a sibling, and the woman in the birthing bed was her own mother. That was the beginning, _he knew. _That beginning, that ended so horribly—all of it flows from that experience, doesn't it_? He looked at her, his eyes searching her face as he yearned to reach out to her and comfort her for the loss he knew had scarred her deeply.

"You love your father very much," he said in a very quiet voice. "Don't you?"

"Of course," Brennan said as if the statement that he'd just made was a universal truth like humans needed air to breathe or that the sky was blue. "Why wouldn't I? He's the only person who's been the only constant in my life since I was a child. Without him, well...let's just say that I have no idea where I'd be today, but I doubt—for better or worse—I doubt that you and I would've ever met. In some ways...I am all that I am because of him." She paused and then gave him a small smile. "Although you may not believe it, I don't purposely wake up each morning and write out my to-do list of sins to commit. It's not like I have a goal to break _all _of the commandments, you know?"

"Hmm," Booth murmured, amusement clear in his voice as he saw her eyes staring at him with what he thought might be something akin to teasing in her eyes if he wasn't very much mistaken. "Is that so?"

She slowly nodded at him before she casually added, "As far as I'm aware, isn't filial devotion demanded of an obedient child to her parent? So far as I know, Martin Luther didn't actually get around to rewriting the commandments before he died, so I think 'honor thy mother and father' is still up there at number four, isn't it?"

At her joke, Booth couldn't help himself as he teased her lightly. "So, you just choose to be presumptuous and obstinate when it suits you?" he asked with a toothy grin. "Which I think is pretty much all the time...at least, all the time when you're conscious, right?"

"I speak my mind," Brennan conceded with a small smile tugging at the edge of her lips. "I always have. But, so far as I know, I don't talk in my sleep, so you may very well be right."

"You know what I find fascinating?" Booth asked her, his voice quiet as he nodded to himself, finally having to turn away for a moment as he tried to jettison the thought of her in bed, murmuring in her sleep.

_Oh, what I would do to hear that sound, _he thought. _But, no—I can't think about that. The process, _he reminded himself. _Focus on the process. Secure her confession. Set her free. Save her, save myself. Yes, that's it. This way I can save myself—save my sanity._ He swallowed. _Whatever measure of it is still left, anyway, _he added grimly.

"You seem to have no problem talking," Booth said. "Except at the one time you should if it is, as you say, your hope to return home. So, please...tell me...why won't you confess? Because, I have to believe that a smart woman like you knows that all you have to do is confess and then you'd be free to go home...to return to your father, your family, your life. In the grand scheme of things, if you care so little about the opinion of the Holy Mother Church, as you say, what does it matter if you confess here...if you let me take your confession? It's just words...and you yourself said words are unimportant." He paused, noting the way her eyes seemed to darken slightly, then continued. "So, if they serve as a means to a greater end, why won't you just confess, do penance, and go home? I don't understand you, Mistress...and I've thought long and hard over this matter, and I just don't comprehend why you won't do what you must if your goal is to obtain your freedom and go home as you say. So, please—tell me...what am I missing?"

She stared at him for a minute, the amusement having dissipated as a flinty quality came into her voice. "There's still the matter of the truth, Father," she told him, leveling a hard gaze at him. "The _truth_." She then shook her head as she said, "Tell me this...why should I lie? Why should I weigh down my conscience when I've done _nothing _wrong? Why should I have to make a sacrifice, no matter how trivial it may be, when I bear absolutely no culpability for the events that have brought me to this place and time before you, except for the fact that I love my father and I don't want to see him hurt or in pain?" Clenching her fists again, her jaw hardened as she shook her head. "I won't do it," she said, shaking her fist in the air. "I just won't do it. I know the truth, and that's all that matters. As for the rest, if it means that I'll rot in here, then...so be it. So, as much as I appreciate your offer, I don't need you, Father, and nor do I have any valid reason to take advantage of your very civil and very generous offer—one that I'm sure is based on nothing but respect and kindness."

She took a long breath to bring a steadiness to her speech. "The fact of the matter is that I have nothing to confess. I've told you this, time and time again. I am _not _a witch...and I won't say otherwise to save my sorry self or..." She glared at him. "Or to make_ your_ job easier. I'm not guilty. I'm not a witch...and there's nothing you can do to do that will ever make me feel or think or say or do otherwise."

Booth looked at her and then shook his head at her infuriating words. _Why? _he thought. _Why do you have to be like this? I'm trying to help you here, Brennan, but I can't do that if you won't even meet me halfway...especially...I need to be able to help you while I still can. I need...oh, God, I don't know what I need besides you. I-I...I just... I need you, but I can't have you...and God, help me. I have to...I have to help you before I crack completely and can't do anything to be of use to you. _He took a long, slow breath and stared into the darkened, gray-rimmed aqua of her eyes. _Because I'm going crazy―you do know that, don't you? I keep fighting it , but I know I'm losing the battle. When it's said and done, I'll have been laid low by a blue-green pair of eyes and a feeling of want that I know I'll never be able to satisfy in this world...or the next. _

He was silent for a moment as he tried to ignore the steadily louder roaring in his ears. After a moment, he said, "That remains to be seen, Mistress Brennan," He was quiet for a minute. "You know," he said in a low, even voice he hoped she'd hear as sincere. "Your support of your father is admirable."

"I will _not _give him up to save myself," Brennan said suddenly, feeling for some strange reason as if she could trust this man even though her logical mind knew that he might use anything she said against him.

Booth stared at her for a moment and then nodded. "While, obviously, I may not be as knowledgeable as you may be in regards to your father's situation...even an outsider like me can tell that he's made many enemies. I've reviewed many folios documenting his case. His enemies are very powerful...much more powerful and rich and of increased social standing than an ordinary apothecary of London should have managed to inflame in his lifetime."

Brennan was quiet for a moment and considered his words before she spoke. "For a time, when he was a young man, he was much more than he appears now. He met my mother when he was in the service of the first Queen Anne. As she fell from favor, so too did he. After her execution and the king's marriage to Queen Jane, for a time my father thought to return to his family's farm in Norfolk. However, my mother loved him and possessed some medicinal skills that attracted her to the notice of the Queen. She was with her when Her Majesty delivered the late King Edward...and in the twelve days after when she lingered between life and death. A small bequest the Queen made in her will remembered my mother. It gave her enough money to purchase what became my father's shop and our house in Marylebone. For a time, after they both retired from royal service, they were happy after they settled into their married life together outside the confines of royal service at court. She bore three sons and a daughter before me, but of all the children she brought into this world, only two—my brother Russ and I—survived infancy."

Booth stared at her, entranced as she spoke, quickly becoming lost in her tale. When she was quiet once more, Booth felt some need to reciprocate and fill the silence between them...to give something of himself to her as she'd just given him. Taking a breath, he opened his mouth, and until the very first words tumbled out of his mouth, he wasn't sure what he was going to say. "My family's from Kent," he told her. "For at least four generations, we've lived there dating back to the beginning of what became the war between the houses of Lancaster and York. I'm the youngest of four brothers born to my father and mother. My father made a decent living as a knight in the service of the Earl of Sussex during King Henry's campaigns in France, particularly Bologone. Father had some fairly productive lands, but, as I was the youngest, I was left with no inheritance to speak of and there was little to keep me at home. Our parish priest realized I possessed some aptitude for reading and writing, and so I was sent to the monastery in Canterbury when I was twelve to receive my education." He stopped as he recalled his rarely spoken of youth. "I enjoyed learning, but I was never quite happy with the fact that, in order to receive an education, I would be expected to take holy vows. I much would've rather been a knight, like my father and older brothers...but, that wasn't meant to be, it seems."

For a moment, the image of the Dominican friar dressed in a suit of shining armor atop a large warhorse flashed in Brennan's mind. The image stirred something in her that she knew she'd not felt in some time—but as she contemplated the image, she came to realize that it was the face of the knight that she was focused on more than anything. It was Booth's face that caused her to feel that way, although she wasn't quite sure why—or, at the very least, didn't want to admit it to herself.

_These are foolish fancies to have, Temperance. He's not the first man of God to have a strong jaw and fine physique that could tempt the patience and virtue of the Virgin Mary herself. Yes, of course he's attractive...but you must be better than that, stronger than that. You must __not__ give in, you mustn't. If he breaks you, you'll...well, that will be it. Appreciate him for what he is, but don't let him get the better of you. Admit why you're responding to him...the breadth of his strong and muscular shoulders appeals to you as does the warmth in his eyes that he's just let you see, _a sharp and firm voice in her head reminded her. _But, never forget...no matter what happens...he's one of them. He's a papist and one of them. He'll take what he can from you and leave you broken and alone if you let him. Give him no quarter...even if he seems different with the kind words he's spinning for you now, _the voice chastised her.

But, even as the voice echoed in her head, as he lifted his gaze to hers once more, she felt her heart skip a beat and felt her heart begin to pound anew.

_Why is he looking at me like that? _a softer voice wondered in her head. _It's almost as if he's looking at me to give him the answer to some great cosmic riddle...or that I possess something that he has desprate need of...what are you trying to tell me, huh? None of this makes any sense...none of it. How you're looking at me, or why I'm suddenly responding to it...it doesn't...it doesn't make any sense. _She felt her heart begin to race in her chest and the already-warm room to feel considerably warmer than it had just minutes before. _And, I'm suddenly not certain I want it to as long as you keep looking at me like that. No one's ever done that before, and I don't think until this very minute, I realized how very badly I wanted that from someone...from you. Give it to me me, please. Oh, please, God...don't stop. Give it to me. Never stop. Never._

"Would that you had become a knight," Brennan finally managed to croak in response. "It's doubtful that we would be meeting here now."

"No," Booth agreed, his voice lame and his words lamer, but he didn't care in that moment since all he saw was a world...a whole existence bounded in the swirl of her pale greenish-blue eyes. After a moment, he reluctantly broke contact with her and conceded, "We probably wouldn't have run in the same social circles."

"You would've had your life, and I would've had mine, and we never would've had a chance to meet," Brennan said, her voice low as she spoke.

_And, if that had never happened...if our paths had never crossed, why am I suddenly feeling an overwhelming tightness in my chest at the mere thought of it? What have you done to me, Father? You've spent days saying I'm the witch, but suddenly I can't help but wonder if this is what it feels like to be bewitched. Is that it? Have you put a spell on me? A spell of desire, a spell of what that I'll never be able to satisfy as long as your eyes aren't the ones that I drowning in when it finally happens? Oh, God...please. Help me. Tell me. What's happening here? What's happening? What's going to happen...to you...to me...to us? Please..._

Tilting her head, she couldn't help it as she whispered, "For the life of me, I can't tell you why, but I think it that had never happened—if I'd never met you, my life...it would've been so much less...so, so very much less. And, for that, I would be sad...so very sad, I don't think I can even give words to measure how unhappy I would be."

Booth's breath caught in his throat, and it seemed as if the world started to spin in that moment as he processed the meaning of her words. _Is she saying what I think she's saying? _he wondered. _God help me...but by some random and miraculously wonderful reason, is she glad of having come to know me? Is she as in awe that our paths have come to cross as I am? Could she possibly feel that way at all?_

Taking a step towards the bed, he asked, in a voice that was low and gravelly for some reason he didn't understand, "Are you really?"

Without thinking, she nodded, "Yes, yes I am. But—" She paused and then sighed softly, "But, you didn't, and we did, and you are here now..." _And, suddenly, I'm so very, very grateful for that fact. You came here...you came to me...you came for me. At least, I think you did. Oh, God_—_what if I'm wrong? What...what if I'm wrong? Then, I have to know...one way or another, I need to know. God, help me. _

"But?" he dared to breathe.

"But," she nodded, almost timid in her response—both dreading and desperately needing to know the answer to her question. Finally, summoning what courage she could, she spoke. "But, the next question that needs to be asked is, why are you here?"

Booth was quiet for a moment as he drank in the sight of her. The warm but dim candlelight cast a romantic illumination around her. Her dark hair seemed to shine in the light as beams caught it at random minutes highlighting the copper and red touches woven throughout her long tresses that floated about her shoulders. Her creamy skin seemed to take on a goldish hue and her eyes continued to enthrall him. Letting his eyes flicker lower, he saw how the finespun linen of her shift seemed almost transparent in the candlelight. For a wonderful but tortuously brief span of seconds, he thought he could just make out the dusky upthrust pink of her nipples through the cambric materials. The familiar but unwanted tightening in his groin returned as he mentally berated himself for having such a sinful response.

Licking his dry lips, Booth finally said, "I'm here because...I need to know something."

"What?" Brennan asked, her body tense as she awaited for his response.

"It's...well, I-I..." he stammered, then fell silent as he once again sought her eyes with his. _I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't think...and I believe it's because of you, Brennan. I feel like I'm losing my mind...losing my soul...losing everything that's ever made me me...and for some inexplicable reason, I'm okay with that, so long as I know that that's what you want, too. Could it be? Somehow, someway...could such a miracle be possible? Or, is it something else? Is it...I know they want me to find you guilty of the charges of witchcraft to pressure your father, but is it possible that they're true, after all? Are you really a witch? Is that's what's happened to me? Have you cast this spell of longing on me that I know I'll never be able to satisfy because...well, I don't know why you would do that, and I don't suppose it matters if I'm damned either way. But, God help me...I need to know. You must tell me...either way. I must know...I just have to, and you have to tell me. For both our sakes', I need to know. _

He took a breath, then sighed. "I need to know..."

"What?" she again repeated. _Please, Father...tell me. Tell me I'm not alone. Tell me that you want me...that you need me. That somehow, someway, through some miracle, I'm not alone in this. Please tell me. _"What do you need to know?"

Her words, combined with the pleading in her eyes, was at last enough to make Booth snap. Quickly closing the distance between them, he suddenly asked, with the desperation he'd been holding at bay for almost three days finally overwhelming him as he spoke, "Have you bewitched me?"

At his question, the hard line returned to Brennan's brow. _Oh, God. I was wrong. He doesn't want me. This is just about the case. Oh, God, help me. I'm damned. _ "I already told you, Father—I'm no witch."

So far gone was he in that moment that he didn't even hear the hardness in her words as he came to stand before her. Instead, he reached out for one of her hands and yanked her to her knees as she sought to keep her balance as she tottered in the bed, and he almost pleaded, "Then, if you're no witch, explain to me how you have done this thing to me that you've managed in the course of three days of interrogations? What's happening to me? Please God, tell me."

"What thing?" Brennan gasped in audible surprise. _What are you saying here? I don't understand. Help me, Father. Tell me. Make me understand._ "What do you think I've done to you?"

"I can't eat," Booth said, as he found himself dropping her hands and throwing himself down on the edge of the bed, some of the despair he'd felt cracking his voice. He shook his head slowly before he looked over at her and continued. "I can't sleep. I can't think straight. And, with each hour that passes, it just gets worse and worse. There's no relief, no respite. All I can do is think about you...what you look like, what you sound like...how I imagine you taste and smell and feel. There's no break from it, no escape, and it's been driving me slowly mad for three days. That's why I've had to come up with excuse after excuse to delay resuming your interrogation, because I don't know what you've finally managed to do to me...or why you'd sic this madness on me."

"_To_ you?" Brennan seized on his words. _I've done nothing to you, but I know you've done something to me...and God what do I do about it? _ "I've done _nothing _to you. I swear it—on my mother's immortal soul, I swear it."

"That's a lie," Booth said to her with a blink. "It has to be. It just has to be." He couldn't help himself as he reached out and plucked the hand that he could reach most easily out from where she rested them at the side of her body. Somewhat brashly, he yanked her forward as he pressed the palm of her hand to cover his heart. "Can you feel that?" he asked her, staring into her eyes with a slightly crazed look gleaming in them. "Can you? Tell me you can. Tell me that I'm not imagining things. Because, I swear to you...it's been beating like that for three days. I'm expecting to fall down into a series of fits at any minute, and I'm going crazy with the fear of it. And, when I'm not afraid of my heart bursting, I have other issues, God help me, that are going to damn me to hell for all eternity before this thing between us is over and done."

"Other issues?" Brennan mouthed. _Did he just say what I think he said? _a small voice wondered in her head. _That is...can it really be? Is it...is it possible, someway, somehow...is he just as at a loss for what's happening between us as I am? Could he really...is the want for him just as it is for me? God, help me...help __us__. _"I don't understand—"

Unable to string the words together, Booth was at a loss for how to tell her what she was doing to him before he sighed once, flushed in embarrassment, and then edged her hand from where it was still pressed against his heart and slid it in a tortuous line down his torso until it reached his groin. He pressed her hands firmly against him and lifted his gaze to hers as he said, "You do this to me. This...this...it comes and goes...for three days it's been like I'm crawling out of my skin. It's never been like this before in all my years of being. I feel like I've been set on fire, and no matter what I do...I can get no relief. I can't quench this...this fire that's burning me up from the inside out."

Brennan was quiet for a minute as she felt the heat from his groin leap through the thin material of his white robes and into her fingers. _God help us_, she breathed. _Be merciful...to him and to me and to us...please. Oh, God help us all._

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, his voice quiet, but the crack still noticeable as he spoke each tortured word, the empty spaces between them filled by the heavy rise and fall of his breaths as he felt her hand through the fabric of his robes. He felt seared by the sensation of finally feeling her touch him so intimately. He listened desperately with baited breath for her answer, but his heart pounded so hard that he could scarcely hear a sound other than the dull roar of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears.

"I-I..."

"You were married," Booth interrupted her, not giving her a chance to finish her sentence since it appeared that her response wasn't what he wanted to hear, as he felt as if he were at the end of his rope, and she was the jailor ready to set him hanging. _Tell me you understand, _he pleaded with her with his wide, soft brown eyes that seemed to darken with each passing second. _God, please, tell me you understand._ "You know what happens between a man and a woman. You must. Tell me you do...please...God, tell me you understand."

"I was married," Brennan nodded, her voice slow as she confirmed his statement. "I, that is...I was married at fifteen to a local boy not quite two years older than me. My father arranged the marriage after my mother's death so that I would be provided for in case something happened to him."

"Then you know," Booth groaned, wanting desperately for her palm to curl around his hardening flesh again and to bring him relief. "You know...don't you?" he begged her.

"I was bedded," she began hesitantly. "But, only a few times...and there was never much for me to learn. My husband, Timothy...he was, as I said, young...and never very strong in constitution. He died six months after we married of the sweating sickness." She paused before she said, "In all honesty, I learned more...about such matters...in my trade as a midwife after I became a widow than during my six months as a wife."

"If you haven't bewitched me," Booth asked, his brow furrowed with angst and concern. "Then, explain this." His voice caught in his throat as he flushed with embarrassment as he pressed her hand harder against his arousal. "Please tell me...you know why this is happening. You must. Even if it's not the same for you, you must know what this is, why it's happening, and what I can do to achieve some...some abatement. Because, if you don't then I'm damned because I've already tried all I know..." He shook his head with a sad look in his eyes. "And nothing..._nothing _works," he croaked.

He thought of the night a couple of nights earlier, when he'd fisted his rebellious flesh, working himself to the point of a shattering release as his mind was awash with thoughts of her body laying in his bed, her back arched high off the mattress as her sweaty skin glistened in the warm light of the slow-burning taper. Twice he came in his own hand thinking of her moaning his name as she curled her fingers around his flesh. Two nights he spent after that trying to make sense of what had happened and trying to find a way to soothe the burning inside of him. On that night, however...on the third night, after three days without seeing her, he'd succombed to the temptation, wrapping his fingers around himself again, but the promise of attaining a quick, jerking release was not enough to satisfy him. He'd needed to see her.

_And now she's touching me, _he told himself. _Sweet holy Mary, mother of God in heaven, she's touching me._

"I-I...I even...I was driven," he said in a gravelly voice. "That is, I even was so desperate that, after everything, I realized I had no choice left but to commit the vile sin of self abuse with the hope that I might receive some quarter, some relief from the madness..." He stopped and looked away from her in that moment, the embarrassment almost too much for him, especially when he added in a small voice.

"I even went to those extremes for naught," he said, his face drawn by a frown. "I did that...I touched myself...I did what I know I shouldn't do, and still I did it because of how you've made me feel, and it was for nothing. All of it, it was for nothing. It didn't help—if anything, it only made things worse." Suddenly, his eyes snapped back to meet hers as he said, " So...that's why I'm here, Brennan...that's what I need to know. What did you do to me? Why? Why am I feeling this way...and what can I do to make it go away? What did you do to me...and please, God, tell me you have some way to make me feel better. Tell me that you can solve this conundrum for me. Tell me...whatever it is, whatever I must do, just please...tell me. Spare me. Please...please..._please help me_."

He rolled his lips between his teeth, closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm in your hands, Mistress. I don't know what else to do. If you want me to get on my knees to beg, I will. Whatever you want me to do, tell me...and I'll do it...if only I can stop feeling this way. Please, please...help me gain some respite before...I fear, you'll drive me insane before anything is finished between us."

For a minute, almost as if he was the one that had placed her under his spell, Brennan simply looked at him, gazing into his sad, pained brown eyes, feeling in those moments as if she were somehow being drawn into them. After a time, she leaned forward and raised her other hand to touch his cheek.

"I've cast no spell on you," she told him quietly. "This thing...whatever's happening to you, to us both...I have no explanation for it."

"Then I'm going mad," Booth rasped, wanting so badly to turn away from her in that moment, but realizing he didn't have the strength to do so even as he didn't take the full meaning of everything she'd just said. _I'm damned_, he thought. _I'm damned...and that's all there is to it. God, help me. I've lost. I'm weak, and I've lost it all. Everything. Oh, God_— "That's it. That's what it must be. There's no other answer."

The pain and turmoil she saw writ on Booth's face tugged at Brennan's heart. Even if she hadn't wanted to help him—and in that moment, she knew she'd do whatever he'd asked of her anyway for pure want of him—Brennan slowly narrowed her stance in the kneeling he earlier yanked her into and leaned in towards him again. The flickering candlelight of the lone taper that Booth had brought with him caused him to see the rosy hue of her warm skin through the translucent pale linen of her chemise. He could see the flat of her stomach, the curve of her breasts, and the taut peaks of her dusky nipples. He gravitated towards her with a want that he couldn't explain—and in that moment, as long as he could somehow satisfy it, he knew he could live a long and happy life without really understanding it. Reaching out, her hand shook a bit as she brought the curve of her palm to cup his stubbled jaw. He began to shake lightly when she touched him, and in turn, his reaction caused her to shiver slightly.

Swallowing once, her voice was rough as she said, "I think I'd like it very much if you'd kiss me right now, but I'm not certain if that will make things better or worse between us."

He stared back at her, his breath hitching in his throat. "I-I..."

"I-I...tell me what to do," Brennan offered him in a husky voice. "I don't...that is, I would cause no innocent pain...I would not see you this way. So, tell me...whatever you want, please...tell me...and I'll do it."

"What I feel...because of you," Booth said, his throat choked with emotion as her offer percolated through the layers of his mind. _I want you to show me the end of this scorching want I feel for you...to touch me...to let me touch you...so, please_. "It's no coincidence," he continued, his voice ragged and full of gravity. "I have to believe that. I'm not sure how things are for you, but it's...strong—so strong and unlike anything I've ever felt before in my entire life. And sinful. God, help me...the way you make me feel, Brennan. I've never felt more sinful in my entire life than I feel since I've met you. And, I don't know what to do about that. I know of no way to rid myself of these feelings...of this want that's consuming me." He turned and glanced out the tiny window of her cell as he fumbled for his thoughts. "I've tried applying logic and reason. I've tried using willpower. I've spent hours on my knees praying for relief. And, even when I touched myself hoping to purge the fever from my body...none of it worked. None of it," he told her. He paused and tilted his head at her. "Please, tell me that you understand what I'm saying. If you don't...I'm not sure what I'll do. You have to understand. You just have to—"

Slowly, Brennan nodded as she caressed his cheek again and then held his eyes firmly in her blue-green gaze. _I understand_, she silently whispered to him. _I'm not sure how or why, but I do. And, although I'm not certain why...it's the same for me. The want...the need. So tell, me. Tell me what you want from me and whatever it is, I'll do it._

"What would you have me do?" she asked him again, her voice rough and raw as the offer that he'd been dreaming about for days finally fell from her lips. "Whatever it is you want...just tell me."

He stared at her, seeing her eyes bore into him made him feel even more lost in that moment. _I want you_—_just you. God help me. Just you. _ "I need relief," he finally said in a choked voice. "This wanting...it's consuming me. So, I must have some...relief from this wanting...from this wanting of you."

Brennan considered his words, and she nodded slowly as he eyes scanned his body. She could see the evidence of his erection through the thin wool of his robes, and in that moment, she too felt a renewed sense of want. At a loss for what to do, she tilted her head as she asked softly, "I want...that is, if you want it...shall I-I...shall I touch you?"

"You are touching me," he replied instantly, not taking her meaning. "You have been, and I'm not certain if that's making it better or worse—"

Smiling a slightly nervous smile, she shook her head to gently correct him. Gently, she reached out and cupped him through his robes, steadily increasing the pressure of her palm against his groin of her own volition as she said, "No. I mean...do you want me to...that is, can I _touch _you?"

Unable to help himself, Booth bit his lip, considered the madness that he felt he was already tottering on the brink of, and realized that if giving into temptation this once might bring him so relief, it was a welcome but necessary evil. Slowly, he nodded his response in the affirmative as his belly fluttered with barely-contained excitement and anticipation at the prospect of feeling the warm, smooth skin of her fingers finally touching the warm, smooth skin of his aroused body. "Touch me," he whispered, the plea in his voice almost making it seem as if he was begging her to act. And, he supposed, in a way he was as he tilted his head and nodded at her. "Please...oh, God...please, Brennan. I want you...I want you to touch me. Please...please touch me."

Nodding, Brennan shifted slightly in the bed. She stared at him for a moment, a light confusion furrowing her brow as she studied him before she said softly, "I've...that is, I don't know how to remove your robes."

It took Booth a moment to understand what she was saying. However, once he comprehended the meaning, he nodded and showed her how to maneuver so that the bindings on the robes fell away and revealed the dark grey woolen leggings he wore beneath his outer garments. These Brennan was familiar with as she reached out and plucked at the tie that kept them upright on his hips. The loose tie gave way easily, and she was able to reach inside and pull him out without any resistance.

As her warm fingers sought out and touched his hard flesh, Booth was taken aback by her touch, which sent a powerful jolt of pleasure surging up his spine as he leaned his head back and clenched his eyes shut. The sensation seared through him, from his core all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes as a long, low sigh passed from his lips at feeling the touch of a woman for the very first time. "_Unnnnngth,_" he groaned as he involuntarily pulled away from her caress, and his slight rejection of her caused Brennan to feel a pang of hurt.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice quiet as she tilted her head and sought out his gaze again. "Did I hurt you? Does that...does that not feel good? Did I do something wrong?"

"No—" he said with a quick shake of his head. He wanted to explain to her, but in that moment, he found her nearness combined with the throbbing in his groin almost too much to bear. "No, I just—"

He lifted his heavy-lidded gaze to meet hers. He stared for a moment, wordlessly imploring her to understand. _I'm not certain what's happening here_, he tried to tell her. _I have no baseline for comparison as to what's happening or why...do you understand? _He waited in expectant anticipation. _Please understand...help me...I need you...I need you to understand._

Brennan stared at him for another moment and then nodded as comprehension dawned. "No one's ever touched you like this before, have they?"

Relief flooded his visage as he slowly shook his head. "No," he breathed. "Never...especially not someone I've wanted as much as I want you in this very minute."

A smile came across her face, a smile that nearly melted his heart into a warm puddle of amorphousness. Shyly, she finally said, "You must try to relax. Although I'm not one hundred percent certain, I'm fairly sure that you won't enjoy this—or obtain any of the relief from the wanting that you crave if you don't relax. So, as difficult and ironically amusing as this may sound coming from me, you must trust me. Relax...and let me show you a kindness now that I think you will enjoy? Please? Just...relax...and trust me."

"I do," he nodded at her. "I know you may not believe this, but I'm here putting my immortal soul at risk because of you..._for _you," Booth managed to croak at her. "And, I don't care because I want you so much, Brennan. So, what greater sign of trust can I give than that?"

"How about not pulling away from me when I really start to touch you?" she countered, as she again flushed lightly at his words of praise of her and flashed another smile at him. "Because, if your instinct is to move that far away when I'm just pulling you outside of your leggings, it's going to make the other things I think you would have me do to you incredibly challenging from a logistical standpoint." She stopped and then said, "Maybe you'd be more comfortable and less apt to pull away from me if you were sitting down?" She nodded her head lightly at the bed as she said, "Come here. I won't do anything you don't want me to do. I promise."

Booth flushed a bit at her gentle admonition, but nodded as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Once he was sitting, he told her, "It's not because of you, you know? I-I...you know that, right? I want you—I do. I-I just...I've never done this sort of thing before, so I'm not certain what's going on or what's happening and why. But, I do trust you. And, so I shall try to be still."

She blinked at him several times as she considered his words. _I want you...I do trust you. _Her smile broadened into a shy grin as she said with a small shake of her head, "You don't need to be still. In fact, if we're doing this the right way, you shouldn't be still at all. You'll be moving and groaning and moaning and feeling not just release from the wanting, but pleasure as well. You should feel pleasure and so...just don't pull away from me. I can offer...offer you no relief or enjoyment if you pull away from me."

Slowly, Booth nodded, his hands clenched in tight fists as his sides as he looked down at the sight of her fingers curled around him. His nostrils flared with his jagged, uneven breaths as he raised his gaze to meet hers. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he watched something flicker behind her eyes that he couldn't interpret. His brown eyes pleaded with her. _Please, _he seemed to say to her. _Please do this thing for me...oh, please..._

Brennan bit her bottom lip for a moment before she steeled her resolve. _I want him. God help me, I want him. I think I may always want him...and it's not just because he looks at me like none of the others...hell, like no other man before has ever looked at me_—_like he can see into my very heart and soul, know everything, and still want to be there._

When he leaned close into her once more, she reached out and took him in her hand. She could feel his hardness in the soft curve of her palm. Slowly, she let her long and thin fingers wrap around him as she gripped him in the fist she made. As she increased the pressure around his cock, she heard him hiss lightly. But, true to his word, he didn't pull away.

"How does that feel?" she asked, testing the pressure she applied in her hand by lifting her gaze to meet his eyes. "Tell me."

"Very different from when I did it," he finally croaked. "_Ohhhhhhhh_..."

A sudden feeling of strangeness washed over Brennan as she considered his words. Her heart rate increased as a steady pulse between her legs began to grow stronger and more pronounced. As she worked to stroke him, she couldn't help herself as she recalled a thought from his earlier confession to her. "You...you said that you committed the sin of self-abuse to try to bring some yourself some relief."

He flushed a bit at her words and then slowly nodded his head.

"That means...you touched yourself," Brennan mused out loud, the roaring in her ears increasing as the picture of him completely naked and stroking himself made her go weak in the knees and wet with want of him. "You touched yourself," she whispered a second time, the blood rushing to her ears as she pictured him sprawled out on a bed, hard because of her...and wanting just for her. "You touched yourself because of want...of me?" To emphasize her point, she pumped him a couple of times from base to tip and back again, eliciting a strangulated growl to emerge involuntarily from his throat. "Yes?" she asked as a point of clarification.

Booth, feeling overwhelmed at the sensations she caused him to feel could only furiously nod his head in the affirmative.

"When you did this," Brennan asked, true curiosity prodding her on. "Were you...that is, what happened? Were you thinking of me?"

Booth's nostrils began to flare again as he thought about her question. He thought of how her face had looked in his fantasy, half-hidden by the latticework of the confessional screen, and how her pale eyes had shone through, drilling deeply into him as he had fallen into a spiral of sounds and images of her body, flushed and beaded with sweat beneath him as he'd drilled into her, again and again in his mind's eye until he exploded in his own hand as he moaned _her _name. He could feel the warmth in his face growing even more as he knew himself to be flushing as bright a red as possible from his nose to the tips of his ears and everything in between. He said nothing for a minute, but as Brennan chose that moment to increase the speed with which her hand was stroking him, causing him to be yanked literally back from his memories of the previous evenings as he cried out an answer...and encouragement to her ministrations.

"_Yeeeeessss_," he hissed as his head lolled to the side and his eyelids fluttered with pleasure. "Oh, God...yes. I did...I did. Yes, I did."

Brennan flushed a bit at his admission, and feeling quite pleased with it for some inexplicable reason, she rewarded him with a flick of her thumb as she traced a line around the swollen and glistening tip of his cock.

"You were thinking of me when you touched yourself," she repeated, this time more a statement than a question. "Because you want me?"

"_Ohhh_, yes," he whispered again, as shame and desire fought a battle for control...and desire won. In that moment, he knew he'd tell her anything she wanted to hear just so long as she didn't stop. "Oh, God, Brennan. Don't stop. Please...don't stop. I thought of you...yes. I did..._yeeessss_."

"Did you think of me doing this to you?" Brennan asked, her voice rough. "Is that how it started? Did you picture me...me touching you...like this?"

"Yes," he growled. "And more." He sucked in a hard breath between his teeth as he felt the tugging behind his navel grow more painfully intense with each jerk of her hand. "More...there was more. So much more."

"Tell me," Brennan said, as she continued to drag her hand up and down his rigid cock. "I want to know. I want you...all of you. And, that starts here. Give yourself to me. Tell me what you thought of..."

"I thought of you...naked," he groaned, as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus what mental energies he could on answering her questions, since he feared she'd stop touching him if he stopped talking. "Oh, God, Brennan—I thought of you...your body. Naked. Completely naked." He swallowed. "And, you wanted me...all of you. You wanted me, and I could reach out and touch you."

"Touch me how?" she dared to breathe.

"Your breasts..." he muttered. "Oh, God...your breasts. They were naked and large and ripe...and you let me touch them. I wanted to touch them...take them. And you let me. All of it...you gave me everything."

At the admission, Brennan felt her nipples tighten against the fine spun linen of her shift.

"What about them?" she prodded, as much for his enjoyment as for hers in that moment. "What did I give you? What did you do? What did you want to do?"

"I wanted...to know...how they would feel..." he groaned, his hips bucking up off the bed slightly as she continued to increase the tempo at which she was pumping him. "_Unngggth..._ohhhh, God, Brennan...your nipples...I thought about...how your nipples...how they would feel between my fingers."

"You were thinking about touching me," she said, her voice taking on a throatiness that only inflamed him more with each word she spoke. "When you were touching yourself?"

"God," he moaned as her other hand moved to massage his balls that ached with heaviness. "Oh, God—I did. Yes. I did. It's true. I swear I did."

"And, now," she whispered, becoming lost in him. "I'm touching you."

"Oh, God," he whispered as he felt the hated jerking sensation behind his navel increase tenfold with each second her stroking continued. Squeezing his eyes shut, he felt the ground beneath him give out as the world started to spin. "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God," he chanted as if he was whispering a prayer.

"Stop fighting it," a tortuously tempting voice suddenly whispered in his ear. He could feel her warm, moist breath on his ear as she'd suddenly leaned in, and it all but pushed him over the edge. "Let go. Give in. You want this. You know that. Enjoy it. Take what I'm giving you." Her voice was low and soft, like velvet. "I want to give this to you. I want to...I want you. I do...so, please. Take it. Take the pleasure...do it...just give in and take what you say you want."

His hips again bucked as she stroked him even more furiously.

Brennan leaned in to close the last fraction of an inch between them and brushed her lips against the pebbly skin of his acne-scarred jaw. She felt his skin, rough with stubble and its own uneven texture, and she let her chapped lips skate as lightly as a feather over his skin. She smiled at the sigh that he made at the contact. Still he seemed to be holding himself back as she dragged the skin over his hard flesh with firm, insistent strokes. A thought flashed through her mind as she took a breath and pressed a light kiss in the flat, rough space just below and in front of his ear. It was at that moment, the moment her lips pressed into his jaw, that he suddenly cried out as he came in her hand.

It took Brennan a minute to realize what had happened when he fell still beneath her touch. The fight had gone out of him the instant her lips had placed a soft kiss on his jaw. As she felt him reflexively thrust a couple of times into her hand as the sticky white strands pumped out of him, she watched with interest as his body tensed and then relaxed altogether.

Her eyes darted around her room, looking for something she might be able to use to clean the mess he'd made in her hand. At last, they settled on the rag she used to wash her face each morning that lay folded near the pitcher of water next to where Booth had set the candle he'd carried into the room earlier. With a small pang of regret, she released him and slipped out of the bed and walked to the table. It was painful as she walked, her own arousal unattended and throbbing, but the tenderness she felt for him in that moment caused her to push it aside as best she could.

Grabbing the rag with her clean hand, she dipped it in the water that had been set out for her to wash with during her morning ablutions. Quickly, she wiped away the stickiness from her hand. She didn't know how or why, but with her back turned to him, she could feel his eyes watching her as she moved. After a moment, she turned back and saw that she'd been correct, and he had been staring at her. She saw some type of calm relaxation reflected on his face that caused her to smile.

Taking a slow and deliberate step back to the bed, she stopped in front of him, and brought her now clean hands back to cup his jaw. "Better?" she asked softly as she sat down on the bed next to him. She leaned forward and, turning his head towards her with a gentle touch to his chin, kissed him. She smiled as she let her lips linger against his for a moment, then pulled away again. His eyes blinked back at her but, for a few moments, he seemed at a loss for words, which made her smile in bemused satisfaction.

The desperation that he'd felt earlier had been replaced by a satisfied calm, and he slowly nodded his head. "Yes," he managed to whisper, surprised at what his voice sounded like. He stopped and then sighed. "But, for how long?"

"I can't answer that," Brennan said quietly. "Because...I haven't bewitched you...not unless you've done the same to me. So the only thing, if, as you say, you've never felt like this before, is not something that's happened to you because of you being a man, but because of whatever there is between you and I as a man and a woman." She stopped and tilted her head as she asked, "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"I—umm..." Booth hesitated, his brain still mush from the haze of his orgasm as he struggled to find the words. "But, I can't be just a man. I gave up that right a long time ago...when I made my vows to God."

"Then..." Brennan responded, a bit of sadness coming into her voice as she let her hands fall away. "Perhaps if you try praying harder, the sins we've committed this night will be enough to allow you to gain control over yourself once more."

"_No_," Booth growled as he felt her move to pull away from him. Reaching out, he grabbed her hips and pulled closer her to him. "I've already sinned. And, I'll receive absolution and do penance for those sins...but not...not over you merely touching me as you did. If I'm going to risk eternal damnation—"

"You want me," she chuckled, the idea suddenly becoming clear. "You want me, don't you?"

"I-I...I think I do, yes," he breathed. "I know I do...and I think...well, do you want me?"

She slowly nodded, and brought one of his hands to her chest. Slowly, she guided it to where her heart was beating so hard that the pounding felt much the same for her as it had been earlier when he placed her hand on his heart. "It's the same for me...I swear it. I want you...now, more than before, if that's even possible. I want you...I want to be with you, but—" Her voice trailed off as rationality reasserted itself. Pointing with her hand at the shifting shadows of the evening that were beginning to recede from her window, she whispered, "But, we don't have enough time...we need more time, and it already runs short. It will be time for Matins soon. I can tell as the shadows move."

A foul curse fell from Booth's lips as he sighed. "I can't miss Matins," he said. "If I do, they will look for me, and gossip will eventually find us out."

"You need to go," she said with some understanding now established between them. "But, I can trust you to say that what's started here is not complete...yes?"

"No," Booth said as he shook his head. "It's not—at least for me. And, for you, too, now...I think?" He gave her a small squeeze once she gave him a slight nod and they let his hands fall away from hers, and she shifted away from him so that he was free to stand up unencumbered. Once he was upright, albeit on shaky feet, he hurriedly tucked himself—quite a sensitive a part of him, he observed as he winced slightly at the contact—back inside his leggings and adjusted his robes so that no appearance of any of the gross improprieties that had just taken place could be seen. Still standing on uncertain feet, he moved towards the table and lifted the candle from where he'd left it earlier.

Knowing that if he turned around and saw her looking at him, he would touch her again, and then they might both be found out, Booth paused only long enough to say, "In a few hours, your next interrogation will have to commence." He pursed his lips together as he slipped on his sandals. "I can't put it off again. I've run out of excuses. It must proceed...I have no choice in the matter."

"I know," Brennan said quietly as her eyes stared at him with her own unsatisfied longing shining in them. "I know that. But, you do know that I didn't do...any of _this_ with the expectation of it changing anything between us in that regard, don't you? I didn't, that is...I don't expect any _quid pro quo, _here. What just happened...it has nothing to do with my case as far as I'm concerned. It only happened...and only has meaning and significance because of our want of one another, yes? You do know that right?"

Booth was quiet for a moment and then said softly, "Yes, I do. But, even still...I'll do what I can to help you, I promise. Not because I have to...but...just because...I want to—" His voice trailed off as he hoped the look in his eyes was saying everything to her that his mouth couldn't find the words for in that moment. _I want to finish this, _he wanted to tell her. _To know you completely, and to feel all of you. To...to give you all of me, and to feel all of you in return_. _I want everything...I want it all. I just...I want...you. Just you. _

"I'd be grateful for that," she responded honestly. _Even if I don't want you to go...God, I want you. Don't leave me...or, at the very least, promise me you'll return. You'll see this thing finished between us, won't you? Promise me...please promise me_, a voice pleaded in her head.

He nodded. "I will see you after Lauds then." He hesitated as he touched his hand to the door handle, then looked up at her again and held out his hand as their eyes met one last time, his fingers splayed wide as he held his hand in the air for a couple of long moments, then took a breath and sighed as his fingers curled into a loose fist, flashed her one last innocently boyish smile and turned the handle in one fluid motion.

And, then, just like that, he was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_Well, we hope it was worth the wait. Our two protagonists seem happy. (Well, one of them a bit happier for the moment than the other. Hopefully we can address that inequity soon.) _

_We're guessing you want to know what happens at that next interrogation. Well, we can't wait to show you. Chapter 8 is in edits and won't take as long to get ready for your reading pleasure as Chapter 7 did. Oh, and if you thought __**this **__chapter was satisfying, you'll really, really like Chapter 8. (It's, well, really good. As in, really, REALLY good.) /cocky button off_

_(At this point, it's abundantly clear that the switch on__** dharmamonkey**__'s cocky button is not working. Unfortunately, it's long out of warranty. Alas.)_

_In the meantime, we hope Chapter 7 met your expectations. __However, since Avalon doesn't work for us (how cool would it be if she did? maybe she'd give us singing tarot card readings), and because neither _**Lesera128** _or _**dharmamonkey **_are psychic, we need you to tell us how we're doing._

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_Thanks._


	8. Just A Man

**The Inquisitor**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128  
><strong>Rated: <strong>M  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox y adverse possession. ::blinks:: Okay, not really. But, you get the gist.

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><p><strong>AN: **_First, we apologize for the delay in getting this latest update up. We could blame the demands of our real lives (which is a very real problem, LOL), the length of the chapter (which was a factor), or the tug of our collective muse on other projects (which is also a problem), but the biggest reason was that we didn't want to rush this chapter because, as you'll see, it's important, and we really wanted to do it right. So, without further ado, here it is. We hope you enjoy it._

**Unf Alert: **_Unless you've been snoozing through the previous seven chapters (especially the last two), you know that this story has a hearty dose of sweat-inducing content. And if you read the last chapter, you have a pretty good idea that some serious unfness is going to ensue in this one. But, let us say again, so we're perfectly clear, if you don't like reading about certain activities, then you should probably not read any farther. For the rest of you, we're pretty sure you'll be quite pleased with what follows. You'll enjoy the dialogue, too._

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><p><strong>Chapter 8: Just a Man<strong>

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><p>As he navigated the quiet maze of hallways in the early morning in a distracted but furious mental haze, the irony of the situation was not lost on Father Seeley Booth. He'd finally obtained a useful measure of relief—but only in the skillful and experienced hands of the accused heretic and witch, Mistress Temperance Brennan. But, now that he'd had what he knew to be only a very small taste of her, one fact had painfully crystallized in his mind: he <em>wanted<em>..nay, he _needed_...more—more of _her_—as soon as possible.

Yet, at the same time, he needed some distance from her if he was to do his job successfully and in so doing, to save both of them. He had a duty that he'd sworn to uphold, a job he knew he needed to complete. He had to dispatch the duties of the office of Inquisitor, to finish trying her case to its natural conclusion, and find out the truth, whatever it was, as to the question of whether Brennan was the one who had cast a spell on the saddler Michael Stires. Booth also knew, sadly―although every bone in his body railed against the idea―that if she was guilty of the charges laid at her that he must extract a confession from her so that she could receive penance and be forgiven, and he'd see to it that she was punished appropriately. The latter thought made Booth feel physically nauseous, and he decided right there in that moment that he would do whatever he had to do to keep Brennan safe from harm.

_I will find a way_, he vowed silently. _I swear it. If things come to that, I don't know what I'll do or how—but I will find a way to make certain that she's safe and happy and free._

After leaving Brennan's cell, Booth went back to his own modest quarters, bathed and changed into fresh robes, attended Matins, joined the laity for breakfast, and then went straightaway to the interrogation room to prepare to question the accused after the Lauds service as he'd promised.

He sat at his desk in the interrogation room and reviewed the notes he had taken from the previous days' sessions although he already knew the words by heart and could recite them without a need to glance at the vellum that was covered with his distinct scribbles. He rubbed his stubbly chin and drummed his fingertips on the top of the table as he read and reread the transcribed depositions of Michael and Daisy Stires. Eventually setting the depositions aside, he chewed the inside of his lip as he remembered Brennan's description of young Daisy's three doomed pregnancies. He reached across the table for his leather-bound copy of the _Decretum Gratiani _as he sought to find a specific papal decretal that he vaguely remembered reading at some point on the nature of sin and truth and temptation_._ He opened the dense tome and began to flip through the pages until a passage in the middle of one of the pages suddenly caught his eye:

"_Episcopus vel presbiter uxorem propriam a sua cura non abiciat..._" ("Let a bishop or priest not thrust away his own wife from his responsibility to her...").

His eyes narrowed as he remembered the context of the obscure passage. It was from a letter written by Pope Leo IX to Abbot Niketas in 1054 in which he discussed a passage from the ninth chapter of the First Epistle of the Apostle Paul to the Corinthians. He closed his eyes and remembered a passage from the seventh chapter of the same epistle, in which Paul said to the Corinthians:

"_Do not deprive one another except perhaps by agreement for a set time, to devote yourselves to prayer, and then come together again, so that Satan may not tempt you because of your lack of self-control," _the Apostle said. _"This I say by way of concession, not of command. I wish that all were as I myself am. But each has a particular gift from God, one having one kind and another a different kind. To the unmarried and the widows I say that it is well for them to remain unmarried as I am. But if they are not practicing self-control, they should marry. For it is better to marry than to be aflame with passion."_

Booth shook his head, covering his eyes with his hands and sighed. _Why today? _he asked himself, letting his hands fall away as he looked up at the timbered ceiling. _Why today, of all days, must I open this book, the pages of which I have consulted thousands of times, and have that passage, those very words, be the ones that my eyes fall upon after the madness that has consumed me the last few days? Why? _He let his head fall, his chin resting on his chest as he swallowed hard.

_Please, God, _he prayed silently. _Show me the way out of this madness. Help me._

As if in answer to his prayer, another well-known passage flashed in his mind.

"_Canon IX: If anyone saith, that clerics constituted in sacred orders, or Regulars, who have solemnly professed chastity, are able to contract marriage, and that being contracted it is valid, notwithstanding the ecclesiastical law, or vow; and that the contrary is nothing else than to condemn marriage; and, that all who do not feel that they have the gift of chastity, even though they have made a vow thereof, may contract marriage; let him be anathema: seeing that God refuses not that gift to those who ask for it rightly, neither does He suffer us to be tempted above that which we are able."_

His jaw tensed as the words rang in his mind. _I remember well the preliminary rulings on the canons from the Tridentine ruling on clerical marriage and celibacy_, Booth thought morosely as he thought about the hours upon endless hours that various church officials had spent debating the issues at Trent in north central Italy. _Too well. There's...there's just no room for prevarication. So, it's not like it's a surprise, but I know the choices already. Those are my choices, pure and simple_: _I can want her and abstain and be saved or I can want her and indulge and be damned as an anathema. God help me... but, I can't do it. I can't want her and not have her if she's willing to give herself to me...if she wants me to take her, to have her. I can't help myself. I must...I have to be with her. _

He paused and then looked at a random spot on the far side of the interrogation chamber as he sighed in frustration. _So, does that mean I'm damned? Does that mean there's no hope for me? Is my soul going to burn in the fires of Hell, absent of God's grace and eternal love for my want of her? And if does...if it means I can be with her, for whatever time we can steal...do I really care what happens to me afterwards? _He stopped and recalled but the briefest and most sweet of tastes he'd had of her touch and knew the answer in that very moment. _If I can have her...then, no...no matter what the cost...the answer is I don't care what happens to me afterwards._

The sound of the unlatching door echoed between the walls of the sparsely-furnished interrogation room. Booth looked up from his vellum parchments and folios as Brennan was brought in, shackled and chained, but he did not move or stand up even as he felt his heart flutter in reaction to finally seeing her again. Although it had been less than four hours since last he'd been in her presence, it felt interminably longer.

The guards shoved her roughly into the hard wooden chair and turned to leave just as they had on every other day they had brought Brennan for interrogation during her six weeks of confinement.

Seeing Brennan in chains, Booth found himself thinking of their prior conversation when he'd said that he was sorry she hadn't been dealt with fairly and his promise to her that there wouldn't be any other difficulties with her humane treatment. "Wait," he called out to them as they reached the door. When the senior guard turned and looked at Booth in askance, the inquisitor nodded at him. "Unchain her," he said tersely. The guards first looked to one another and then back to Booth, strange looks falling over them as their foreheads creased in confusion. When neither one moved to carry out his orders, Booth's jaw hardened as his eyes glinted in dangerous abeyance. "You heard me," he barked. "Remove the chains and shackles." He glared at them, the hostility and aggression radiating off of him as they continued to hesitate. "Now," he snapped.

At last, the younger of the two guards had the temerity to ask him, "Are you certain, Father?"

"_Now," _Booth growled, his teeth gritted as he stood up from his chair. "I wouldn't have told you what to do if I wasn't certain that's what I wanted done in the first place. Do it now and without further question or protest―unless you actually _want _to find out what happens to insolent guards who challenge the authority of an Inquisitor appointed by the Holy Church to rid these realms of heresy and dare to presume to speak to their betters in such an audacious manner."

The two guards again exchanged hurried glances at one another before the older guard to whom Booth had originally spoken bowed his head and nodded in compliance. "Yes, Father," the man said weakly.

Booth's eyes swiveled and met Brennan's as he looked to see her reaction to his exchange with the guards. A faint smile flashed across her lips, then vanished when she averted her eyes as the older guard walked up behind her and knelt down to unlock the iron shackles that weighed heavily on her wrists and ankles. When he was done, the guard stood up and looked at the black-robed priest. Booth nodded, the guard inclined his head, and both guards then turned away and walked out the door.

As soon as the heavy oak door closed and secured, Brennan raised her head and looked at Booth with true gratitude shining in her pale eyes. "Thank you," she said, her voice low as she gave him what could almost be considered a shy smile.

Booth waved his hand dismissively as he walked around to the front of the table and sat on the edge of it, leaning back on his hands as he looked at her with a grin tugging at the edge of his lips.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" he asked her, his voice almost light in its gentleness. "Even sitting still and not saying a word, you cause problems with such skill, it's like nothing I've ever seen."

She arched her eyebrow, not expecting the backhanded compliment he'd given her to be the first thing he would say to her that morning given what they'd shared less than four hours earlier. Pursing her lips, she said in a teasing voice, "I have many skills, Father...some of which you may know and some of which you may come to know, but you're the only one who can determine how we'll proceed here and in what order."

He took a deep breath and stood up again, glancing down at his feet before raising his eyes to hers once more. "I know what I want to do," he told her instantly. "I want to take whatever you're willing to give me. But, I'm torn, Brennan—torn between want of you and obligation. I still...there's still a job I have to do here. But, with you staring at me like that, it's so easy for me to forget what I need to do...and all I can think about is my want...and my desires...and there's nothing else but you in my mind."

Brennan shook her head, her heart beginning to race as she surveyed his tall, well-built form, concealed though it was under thin, white wool robes and a black wool overcloak. She remembered the night before, and how she had been surprised to see his flat, firm abdomen when he lifted his white robe over his hips and pulled his cloak aside. She felt a tingling in her fingertips as she remembered touching him the way no other woman had touched him before, stroking him in her hand until he broke, his ropy release covering her hand as a long groan escaped his lips.

"Tell me what you must do for duty," she replied, her voice already low and breathy. "And, then, perhaps, if we put both our impressive minds together, we can figure out some way to do your job and then turn our attentions to less...professional pursuits."

Booth's mouth fell open and his throat went dry, and his heart, which had already been beating a little faster since she had walked into the room, took off with a gallop, pounding in his chest. _Oh, God, _he thought as he sucked in a breath and swallowed. _She's going to be my undoing. _He shifted his weight from one hip to the other as he felt a tingling at the base of his spine and he knew his hardening flesh was rebelling against his self-control. _She's going to be my undoing, and the simple fact is, I wouldn't want it any other way. I want her with every fiber of my being. _He sighed and shook his head, then took a deep breath as he struggled to collect himself. _But I have to at least try and make an effort here. Not for the Church or myself alone. But for her. _He nodded as the plan coalesced in his mind. _I need her, but she needs me to do this, that we can do the right thing and see that justice is served. I owe her that, right? To see that her innocence is proved? Yes._

"The next part of your interrogation, according to the precepts set out in the _Malleus Maleficarum,_ requires me to conduct a physical examination of your person to see if you bear a witch's mark," he said, trying to keep his voice steady and calm as he attempted to explain to her the plan that was even then beginning to formulate in his mind as to how he could help her. He then nodded as he continued to explain, "If such a mark were to be found, that would then constitute _prima facie _evidence that you are, in fact, a witch and would, as a matter of canon law, create an irrebuttable presumption of your guilt."

Brennan swallowed as she stared at him wide-eyed. "An _irrebuttable _presumption?" she repeated. "Meaning, if you find such a thing on my body, there's nothing to keep me from the gallows or save me from the stake, is there?"

"Yes, there is," he told her passionately. "_Me_. I won't let that happen," Booth told her, the sincerity in his wide brown eyes bringing her some comfort. "I swear it. But, think, Brennan...as bad as it would be if I were to find such a mark on your body, the opposite as an omen of good fortune would be equally true. For if I find that you don't bear such a mark, then the inquiry will proceed with a review of the depositions given by those who have laid these accusations against you and seek to find a way to dismiss them as those depositions are the only evidence that would be standing between you and having all the charges against you summarily dismissed." He tilted his head and said softly, "This could be the first step to lawfully obtaining your freedom."

Brennan licked her lips as she considered his words. A thought then occurred to her, "So, who would be the individual who would conduct the examination of my body?"

He gave her a wry smile as he slid off of the table and walked towards her. "That would be me," he said with a slightly cocky grin.

"So, you want to search me then?" she asked, her voice breathy as she felt a pulse between her legs at the thought of him touching her.

He nodded his head slowly as his eyes had already become smoky with want. "Yes," he told her quietly.

"And, to do this...I suppose you'd be remiss in your job if you didn't completely and utterly disrobe me of every inch of clothing on my body in the name of being as thorough in your investigation as possible, yes?"

Booth licked his lips, his cheeks already flushed as he let his eyes roam up and down her curvy form in appreciation. "Yes," he whispered, taking a few steps closer to where she sat, her now-unshackled hands folded in her lap. "I would...but, I don't suppose you'd believe me when I tell you that this would've been the next phase in the proceedings of the case against you regardless of what happened between you and I earlier?"

He paused before taking a breath and continuing with a little of the want in his voice suddenly subdued when he added, "As I said, if you are, as you say, innocent of these charges," he said, "then this is the first step of proving your innocence. I'm the inquisitor assigned as the fact-finder in this _inquisitio specialis, _and I'm within my right and authority to carry out this portion of the fact-finding on my own. This is not a case brought under the common law, and there's no jury. I'm the jury. I'm the judge. I've been appointed to this office and granted this power by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. So, I'm not granting you any special favor or prerogatives by doing this."

He paused, his nostrils flaring as his eyes skated over the features of her face, the curvature of her shoulders, the roundness of her breasts, the swell of her hips, and finally down to the slender ankles and the simple leather shoes she wore on her feet.

"I'm the only hope you have to prove your innocence," he said quietly. "The rest of the people out there..." He gestured towards the door. "They want nothing more than to find you guilty of witchcraft and for you to give up your father in exchange for mercy for yourself." He reached down and offered his hand, which she accepted cautiously, as he helped her to her feet. "But, I think you know by now I'm not like that, right?"

"Yes, I do, but—" Her voice trailed off as she gazed into his warm brown eyes. "I still don't understand this...why this has happened to us or how. I'm...it's slightly overwhelming for me."

At her words, Booth couldn't help but chuckle as he said, "You think this is baffling and bewildering to _you_? Try stepping into my sandals for a minute then." Brennan couldn't help herself as she smiled and nodded her understanding. "You do know," he told her. "I can't explain why, but I know...this...whatever _this _is between us. It...well, I've never felt more sure about the rightness of something in my entire life. I trust it...as I've trusted you..." After a few seconds of further thought, he added with a soft smile, "And you know I trust you still?"

She narrowed her eyes, and after several moments of silence, she asked again. "I do...but, I still must confess and tell you that I still don't understand why?"

He blinked, then reached for her, placing his hands on her rounded hips as he pulled her close to him. Their faces separated by inches, he looked into her pale eyes as he felt her warm breath on his chin. He tilted his head, his lips hovering near hers, but he hesitated.

"I don't know or understand the 'why' either," he whispered, his mouth falling open as his heart pounded in his chest. "But, I do know that I _do _trust you. I swear I do."

She pursed her lips, a rush of thoughts passing through her mind in the instant it took for her to decide. She nodded, a silent response to a silent question she had posed to herself, then, sliding one of her hands up the sleeve of his thin wool robe to caress his hand and the sinews of his forearm, she raised her chin and covered his mouth with hers.

For a moment, he stood there, stunned, unsure of what to do, as her lips grasped tentatively at his, her wet tongue sliding over his lower lip. He sighed, suddenly feeling a bit lightheaded and wobbly on his feet, then pulled his mouth away, his stomach clenched in uncertainty.

"I...I-I," he stammered, a sadness in his almond-shaped eyes. "I don't know what...I...what to do...I just don't know."

She smiled at him—a smile that he'd never seen before in his life, and one that he knew would let him die a happy man if she'd just smile that same smile at him again. But, then she made things even better as she gave him a throaty laugh and a glimmer in her eyes that was a promise of what was to come.

"Do as I do," she whispered, reaching up and cupping her hands around his stubbled, chiseled jaw as she pulled his face back to hers.

She kissed him gently, their lips touching briefly before parting and then meeting again. Her mouth met his, and she teased his lips apart with a slow, gentle pass of her tongue along the cleft between his lips, and as he opened his mouth, her eager tongue slid inside, the tip of it glancing against his.

"_Mmmnnnggth_," he murmured, his breaths coming in heaves as his heart pounded hard and fast in his chest when their kiss deepened.

Eventually, Brennan pulled her mouth away again and gave him another sweet smile that made his heart skip a beat.

"That's how it's done," she whispered softly before she leaned in and kissed him again. "Understand?"

He nodded once as his lips eagerly sought out hers. This time, she held back a little, letting her tongue slip into his mouth briefly before retreating again. He pulled her hips firmly against his as his tongue chased hers, and soon his tongue was in her mouth, sliding over her teeth and twirling against hers in the warm, sweet space between them. Another moan sounded from deep in his throat as he kissed her enthusiastically, and he felt a raw, sharp tingle pulse at the base of his spine as he felt himself drowning in the taste of her.

"Ohhh," he sighed as their lips finally broke apart. "You taste...you feel...everything. I want...I want it. I want you," he whispered. "I know it's wrong and that I shouldn't feel this much pleasure outside of my relationship with God, but I do. God help me, I do. And, I want more. Please...please...tell me...let me have more."

"It's yours," she smiled at him. "All you have to do is reach out and take it. It's yours—I'm yours."

He stared at her as if she'd just offered him the most priceless treasure ever known. Slowly, he stared at her, his mouth partly opened into an 'o' shape as his eyes darted from her eyes to her chest and back again. Her mouth twisted into another smile as she sensed both his want and his hesitation, and it endeared him to her even more in that moment. She blinked at him a few times, and smiled at him warmly and encouragingly, silently willing him to act.

However, when another minute passed, and when he still hadn't acted despite her silent urging, she asked in as gentle tone of voice as she could manage, "What is it?"

Closing his eyes, Booth shook his head as he admitted in a rough voice, "I want you...but, I-I...I don't know what to do."

Brennan looked at him, her eyes slightly hooded as she considered his words. "You're not sure what to do about wanting me or what to do about satisfying your want of me?" she asked, a vague smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she observed how flushed his cheeks were and how much darker his brown eyes had turned just in the minute or two since they had began kissing. "Or, is it...maybe...that is, are you still doubting that you should act on the way you feel?"

"I want you," he instantly told her as his eyes opened and frantically sought hers out to reassure her. "That much I know for certain. I don't doubt it...I don't doubt you, Brennan...not at all." His head seemed to sway back and forth as he gazed into her eyes, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath as he swallowed hard, his lips reddened and bee-stung from the enthusiasm with which he'd kissed her. "And as I said, I know I want you. I know I shouldn't," he whispered. "But I can't help it..." He tilted his head once more, leaning in to kiss her again before pulling away again. "I can't help it, but I do, and—" he said again, his voice pinched with a certain sadness or fear—which one, Brennan could not be sure—as he looked at her with glistening, darkened eyes. "Help me," he pleaded with her. "As you did last night, help me...please? Help me?"

Brennan considered his words and then shook her head gently. "I cannot help you with..." She stroked her thumbs over the three days' worth of dark stubble on his cheeks. "I cannot help you decide whether you should or should not do this," she said. "That is a matter for your own conscience. But if you decide you want to—well, if you decide that you want me, and want to take what I can give you—then I can help show you what to do. _That _much I most assuredly can do, and would quite willingly do...with great pleasure in the doing of it, actually."

"Show me," he said, a shy smile softening his normally serious features. "I want that. I want...I want you. I decided. I want you, no matter what the cost is or what the consequences are. I want—I want you, and I want to be with you, so...please...show me. Teach me. Please?"

A smile spread across her lips as she leaned in to give him her answer as they kissed once again.

"Mmmmm," she murmured. When they pulled apart, she smiled at him and said in a playful voice, "For a man who's never kissed a woman before this morning, you aren't doing too badly there," she said, her voice coming low and throaty as she sucked in air while she had the opportunity to do so. "Not bad at all."

He arched an eyebrow at her as he flashed her a toothy grin and asked, "Really?"

"Yes," Brennan nodded as she pursed her reddened lips at him and smiled. "Most definitely."

By way of response, he pushed closer to her once again, his mouth clutching at hers as his tongue eagerly sought hers out, exploring the interior of her mouth with abandon. She closed her eyes as he kissed her, and she felt a strong flash of desire dampen her core.

After another few moments of intense kissing, when she felt her knees begin to wobble a bit, she reluctantly brought a hand up to rest on his chest so that he wouldn't immediately seek to close the distance between them as she knew he'd be tempted to do. "I think," she whispered, as she pulled away from his kiss, and flashed him another reassuring smile. "That this will be a lot easier if at least one of us is seated on something," she said with a chuckle. "While I'm sure it can be done someway, I have never done this sort of thing standing up, and—well, I think this will be easier if..."

Booth's mouth fell open with a nervous laugh. "Alright," he said, glancing around the room. "Umm..." His hands dropped from her hips as he looked back at the table behind him and nodded with his head. "Do you think—?"

Brennan kissed him once more, briefly, then waggled her eyebrows and walked over to the table. She placed her hand on it once to test to see if it was sturdy as it appeared. Satisfied when the table didn't wobble as she tried to shake it, she nodded back to him. "Yes, I think this will do quite nicely."

Turning back to the table, she pursed her lips as she surveyed the scattered materials that lay on top of the wooden surface. Her brow furrowed a bit as she bit her inner lip and felt her mind shift slightly away from the warm and pleasurable feelings of want that being kissed and touched by Booth elicited in her. Unable to help herself, her fingers lightly touched the tops of one of the stacks. "This is it?" she asked, surveying the sheafs and leather-bound folios spread across the tabletop before she looked back to him and added, "Isn't it?"

"Wait, what?" he replied, confused by her question as he struggled to understand what she was asking him. "Is what it?"

"This is the evidence against me?" she asked, clarifying for him. When she spoke, her voice low, but in a different way than it had been just a moment earlier.

Booth noticed the slight change in her demeanor. Taking a step towards her, he nodded, and reached for her hand. He interlaced his fingers with her and brought their joined hands to his mouth as he placed a comforting kiss on them. "Don't do that, hmmm?" he told her in quiet voice.

"Don't do what?" Brennan asked, even though she knew he knew that she knew of what he was speaking.

"Don't think of it," Booth said as he squeezed her hand. "I know that may be difficult in this place, but for now, none of that exists between us." His voice dropped low as he leaned in closer, swallowing as his nostrils flared at the scent of her. "Here, in this time and place, there's only you and me. There's only what we do to..and for...one another. There's only how we make each other feel." His words flowed from him in a very persuasive manner that hinted at how skilled in oration he really was and, Brennan noted with a smirk, the easy smile that graced his lips left no doubt that he knew it. "Don't think of it," he said, his voice turning quiet again. "Not now. Don't let it take more from us than it already has...especially considering the fact that it will be there ready and waiting for both of us afterwards, hmmm?"

She nodded silently, but said nothing as he gave her hand one last kiss before he gathered the documents into a loose pile, slid them to a corner of the table and set the three leather-bound books on top of them before he took the entire bundle and set it on the floor along with his various quill pens, well of ink, sander, and various other implements that were scattered along the table's top when it served as his desk.

When it was clear, he asked, "Better?"

"Yes," she smiled at him. "And, I understand what you've said, and I agree, but I can't help but think that there's a rather strange irony to this, you know."

"I know," he said in a low voice as she leaned back against the table. "And maybe this is wrong, but I don't care...and neither do you, I think."

Brennan narrowed her eyes and looked at him with a wry half-grin as a thought occurred to her. "No, I don't," she agreed. "I care only about you and us and being here together in the here and now, and feeling as I do, perhaps this is as good a way to begin any any other."

Booth's brow furrowed as he stood in front of her, struggling to think of anything other than, on the one hand, the raw arousal he felt tugging at him beneath his robes and, on the other, the curiosity he felt to see what this sensationally beautiful, oddly fascinating woman looked like underneath her clothes. The creases in his forehead deepened as he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to set aside the niggling reminder of his duty. "What do you mean?" he asked, somehow managing not to croak the question.

"You know the old adage, 'to kill two birds with one stone,' Father?" She smiled the same grin she'd given him the day of their first meeting, the same grin that had stuck stubbornly in his thoughts constantly since that first morning and nearly driven him mad from his want of her. "Perhaps this is such an opportunity. You still need to inspect my body for the witch's mark, which could be hidden anywhere, even in very obscure places, correct? And you want to see my body for—well, for other, less official purposes, true? So, you could see this as most excellent opportunity to accomplish both objectives in the course of one examination, yes?"

The anxious look that gripped Booth's features fell away, his face relaxing and his brown eyes brightening as a wide grin broke across his face. "You're a very clever woman," he said to her, taking a step closer so she was within arm's reach. "Very clever." He narrowed his eyes and smirked. "Perhaps a bit _too _clever."

"So I've been told on more than one occasion by more than one person," she laughed, a musical sound that delighted Booth as he stood there, greedily drinking in the sight of her. After a moment, she tilted her head so that she could meet his gaze. "So, it's a good idea, don't you think?"

"Yes," he replied huskily, reaching his hands out to touch her breasts. "It is...a _very _good idea, I think."

Brennan shivered a bit when he touched her over the fabric of her dress. She enjoyed the sensation for only a minute before another thought bounced into her head, and she brought her hands up to gently stop him.

"Wait," she breathed, hoping he wouldn't be too far gone and tempt her back from the foothold she'd managed to eke out somehow for a moment in the land of rational thought.

"What is it?" he breathed, a bit of worry and anxiety coming into his voice as he spoke. "I didn't do something wrong already, did I?"

Once again, she felt her heart melt at his lack of self-confidence. She smiled at him as she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, only pulling away when she felt him eagerly try to deepen the kiss.

Looking up at him, she said, "No, you didn't. It's just...how do we know that no one will discover us?" She paused for a crucial second as she nodded towards the door. "It's just—are you certain we won't be disturbed here? Because I think I very much like the idea of being the only one to enjoy the privilege of having defrocked you. I...don't want to imagine the trouble it might cause if we were caught in such a...compromised position by any inconvenient witnesses that have an affinity for gossiping and can't keep a confidence to save their own lives."

Booth laughed at her quip, wondering which of a half a dozen different attendants and guards she might have been referring to, then shook his head lightly to answer her question. "I'm quite certain neither of those guards from earlier are going to come near that door until they hear my voice bellow at them from down that corridor given the little display of intimidation I had to make earlier," he said with a flash of his eyebrows. "And, as for the rest, the only brother who'd dare interrupt us would be Brother Wyatt, and he's saying the Stations of the Cross with several of the laymen and then leading the Rosary which means we have at least two or three hours before he'd be about other business. So, no, I don't think we'll be disturbed."

"Very well then," she said, releasing his wrists and bringing her hands back to rest on the edge of the heavy oak table. She watched him as his eyes scanned her garment, his gaze settling on the tightly-knotted bow right below her breasts. "So, do you need my help with this part?" she asked, sensing more than knowing for certain that he wanted to enjoy the pleasure of undressing her. "Just tell me...whatever you need, I'll help you."

"I know," he said with a soft laugh, quickly releasing the knot that held together the front of her woolen frock. "But, I think I can figure this part out on my own." He quickly tugged at the cross laces on the front of her dress, loosening it enough so that she could slide it off of her shoulders and shrug her arms out of the sleeves. Once her arms were free, she slid the frock over her hips and stepped out of it as he stood back and watched in complete enthrallment and utter fascination.

"Are you just going to stand there and watch?" she asked him, a clear playfulness in her tone as she carefully folded the dress and set it on top of the folios on the floor next to the table. "Because it's okay if you want to look your fill first, but I'd just assumed that you would want to do more than just look—"

Booth stepped forward and leaned into her, cutting off her words with a hard, eager kiss as his hands traced the curve at the base of her neck, along the border of the smocking that formed the neckline of her thin linen shift. As she moaned into his kiss, their tongues tangling together in a shared murmur, he placed his large palms over her breasts and squeezed them lightly in his hands, eliciting a loud moan from her as she pulled away from his kiss, panting.

"Take it off," she said, reaching down to help him lift the undergarment over her head. "Please. I want it off. Now. I want you to see me. So, please—don't make me wait. Take it off me."

"Yes," he growled, tugging the fabric out of her hands as he pulled it off and carelessly tossed it to the edge of the table. Neither one of them noticed or even cared when it fell in a silent whisper to the floor next to her dress and his case folios. Turning back to her, his breath caught in his throat at the sight of her, completely naked, her ivory skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat in the mid-morning light. "My heavens," he gasped. "God, this is better—_you're_ better than I ever imagined or dreamed." He stopped talking and waited until he held her gaze firmly with hers so that she would understand him. "You're the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes upon," he whispered, leaning in again to touch her breasts once they were looking into one another's eyes. He barely hesitated at all this time when he reached to touch her breasts in what was his second attempt. "Ohhhh," he moaned as he took her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and rubbed the hard, pebbled flesh. "So beautiful...so very beautiful."

"Oooohhhh..." She leaned her head back and clenched her eyes shut at the intensity of the sensation. "You can..." She sucked in a breath as he pinched the points of her nipples, not hard enough to hurt but firmly enough to send a jolt searing up her spine. "Ahhh," she moaned. "You...if you want to...you can put them in your mouth—taste me...with your tongue...and suck on them."

Booth's hands stilled as he thought about it and felt his breath catch in his throat at the thought. "I-I...would...I...that is, I'd very much—" He raised his eyebrows and looked up into her eyes as he stopped himself and asked, "Would you like that?"

"Yes," Brennan nodded firmly. "God, yes. I would. Very much so. And, more importantly, I think you will, too."

He leaned in, lifted up one of her breasts with his hand, and he was about to tongue it when another thought occurred to him. "I should undress, too," he whispered, just a tad of sad reluctance coloring his voice. He blinked at her several times before he said softly, "That is...before we go any further, I think it would be a help and not a hindrance if there was no barrier between us." The gravity in his voice told her that he meant more than the physical barrier his troublesome robes would pose. "So, I...that is, I need to—my clothes. I should take them off. And..." His voice trailed off as he once again found himself tongue-tied. He looked at Brennan as he flushed red again in embarrassment at his incoherence. Forcing himself to take a breath, he asked her, "Would you like to see me? I mean, without my robes?"

She smiled as she reached out and cupped his jaw with her fingers. "Yes," she whispered. "Of course."

No sooner had the words left her mouth then did he ducked away from her, pulling his hooded cloak over his head before he tossed the heavy black woolen garment on top of her own clothing. He then stood before her, wearing only his white robes and grey woolen leggings.

"Would you like me to help you?" she asked, as she saw him falter once again. Slowly, he grinned and nodded his assent. Taking a step towards him, she flashed him a quick smile before she reached down, gathering up the long length of fabric and pulled it up over his legs, past his hips, and over the broad expanse of his chest before finally lifting it over his head. "You..." Brennan gasped at the sight of him, his rounded, muscular shoulders, his firm, toned arms and chest, and his flat belly. "You have a very handsome body, Father," she said, dragging her index finger down in the space between his pectoral muscles, over his abdomen, past his navel and to the waistband of his gray wool leggings.

He blinked as he shook his head at her words. "Don't call me Father," he whispered, wincing at the way his balls hitched as he felt her eyes examining him and the light touch of her finger caressing his belly. "Please, it doesn't—I would have none of that between us anymore...especially not now."

"What do you want me to call you then?" she asked, as she tilted her head at him.

He swallowed and then blinked. He'd never been asked this question before her—yet another first in a long line of firsts as far as she was concerned, he thought with a chuckle. He'd been a priest nearly all of his adult life, since he was seventeen years-old. Since that age, he'd been known to all as either Brother Seeley or Father Seeley since he'd rarely seen any members of his family during that entire time who might have some cause to address him a more familiar manner. Thus, the question had simply never come up before. But, as Brennan stared at him with wide-eyed expectation, he suddenly knew what the answer was to this question. He blinked a couple of times before he gave her a response.

"Booth," he said. "Call me Booth."

"Booth," she said quietly, drawing a circle with her fingertip around his navel, which made him hiss with pleasure as she tested the strange word on her tongue. "Yes, that's quite suitable, I think. It fits you...well. Very well. So, now, the next question is—" With a smile, she asked him, "Do you want me still, Booth?"

He groaned in the affirmative. "God, yes," he managed to mumble after he took a moment to string together a proper response so that he could let her know how he felt about her, despite the way her touch made his mind feel as thick and slow-moving as pitch. "Yes," he croaked. "You—I want...most definitely, more than anything—yes. I still want you, so much...so very, _very _much." He paused and then chuckled as he added, "So, I guess, the simple answer to your question is...yes."

Obviously quite pleased at what she'd heard, Brennan merely gave him a wry smile as she reached down and swiftly untied the drawstrings of his gray leggings, and then slid her hands under the waistband and pulled the garment over his narrow hips, letting it fall to his sandaled feet. Booth first toed out of his sandals and then stepped out of his leggings before he leaned back in close to her again. He looked down at her breasts and, remembering her invitation for him to touch them with his mouth, he palmed them both, hesitating as he decided which of them to touch in that way. After another couple of seconds, he narrowed his eyes as he made his decision, and he bent his head down. He lifted her left breast in his hand, kissing the point of her nipple with his lips experimentally, looking up after a minute to see her reaction to his touch.

She nodded, then whispered, in a breathy voice that made his heart skip a beat, "If you want...you can use your tongue."

He blinked at her once to see if she really meant it, and when she gave him an encouraging smile, he grinned what he knew was a stupid grin. But, he didn't particularly care in that moment how foolish he looked since Brennan had just given him permission to do what he believed to be what was possibly one of the most exciting and arousing and sensually intimate experiences he'd ever have in his entire life...and that fact made his head spin ever faster than the whirlwind that was twirling him around and around so that he no longer knew up from down...or cared that he didn't anymore. He closed his eyes and lowered his head again, gently laving her quickly hardening, pebbled pink flesh with the point of his tongue.

"Ohhhh," she sighed, gritting her teeth at the sensation. "That's nice...very nice."

Encouraged by her vocalizations, he closed his whole mouth over her nipple and sucked on it, gently at first and then more insistently, a low growl sounding deep in his chest as he pulled his lips away to breathe before drawing it into his mouth once more. As he did so he felt the heavy painfulness in his groin area intensify with each moment that passed.

"I want you," he murmured, unable to help himself, as he released her nipple from his lips, a smile appearing on his face as he saw the flesh, darkened and more rigid after his attentions. "I can't...it's just...I...well, it's just..." When he looked up to see Brennan's eyes had glazed over as she stared back at him through a heavy-lidded gaze, he took it that he was at least doing _something _right since she seemed to have been affected to some extent by his touch. "I want you so badly it hurts, Brennan," he said. "But I...I don't know how to make that pain go away. I don't know how to ease this ache for you that makes me as crazy and off-balance as I felt last night seem like a calm and balanced respite in tranquility as compared with how I feel right now. I want you, but I don't know what I should do next about wanting you. I-I...I'm not sure if that makes any sense or not, but I—"

Brennan leaned her head back and tried to collect her thoughts as she attempted to make sense of Booth's words even as he spoke. His uncertainty only served to endear him more to her, and she felt a fierce flame of strong possessiveness and protectiveness towards him grow as he seemed so lost and was looking for her to act as his guide out of the infuriating maze that was caused by his uncertainty in how to satisfy his desire for her. Deciding that the first thing she needed to do was reassure him, followed quickly by building up his confidence, Brennan leaned forward and quickly pressed her lips to his, cutting Booth off in mid-sentence.

Some of the tension in his features slackened a bit when she leaned back and said with a soft smile, "I think I might've told you this before, but just in case you've forgotten as I know you're dealing with a lot of overwhelming details at the current moment, I want you, too," she said. "Remember? Last night? I told you that I want you...all of you. And, we agreed because that started things between us last night when you gave yourself to me. Now, all that we're doing is taking the next logical step. You gave yourself to me, and now, I'm giving myself to you, and we're taking what joy and pleasure we want in one another. I want you, Booth, and I want to be with you. I want to be with you very much, and so all you have to do next is trust me, hmmm?"

Slowly, Booth stared at her for almost a full minute and then nodded his head. Exhaling a breath she hadn't realized he'd been holding, he immediately looked less stressed and more relaxed than even he had but a moment earlier. Smiling at him, she took a breath and leveled her gaze at his as she hopped up, sitting onto the edge of the table as she spread her legs a little. "Do you know...?" She hesitated. "Do you know what to do?" she asked. "Just tell me, and whatever you don't know, we'll figure out together—"

Booth shrugged slightly. "I...well, that is, I-I, well..." He flushed again, this time turning a bright red from the tips of his nose to the tips of his ears, this time embarrassment obviously coloring his handsome face. He shook his head as he finally let out a deep breath of frustration. He looked away from her, lifting his head to look to a random spot on the ceiling as he averted his eyes. "I feel like an ignoramus," he admitted. "I mean, of course, I know that when a male beds a female, there's...penetration of some..sort, errrr, because I saw animals rutting on my parents' manor when a male animal would become aroused and would take the female animal when they copulated, but that's not really, well—" He laughed awkwardly. "And one time, well, more than one time, actually...you see, I shared a room for a time with another friar who sometimes engaged in fornication with women, and since I didn't know any better, I would, on occasion walk in on them. But I know that's nothing like what should happen between you and me...neither the rutting or the fornicating, I think, that is because I know you're not a mare, and I'm not a stallion, and neither are you here for some paid tumble, so I'm quite sure it's different, very different...you know, this...what's between us...that is, than what I've seen before...or, at least, I think it should be different, since rutting and fornicating aren't what we're doing, of course—"

Brennan's lips curled into a small smile as she watched him struggle to explain himself. Chuckling lightly, she reached for him as she said, "It's alright, Booth."

"Really?" he asked her, for once daring to move his eyes from where they'd focused on the ceiling to meet her gaze. Seeing no castigation or judgement in her eyes, he felt a bit better and admitted, "I know that, as the man, I should be better acquainted with what to do next than I am, but—" He stopped and let out a heavy sigh as he said, "I feel like a damn fool."

Spreading her legs apart a little more, Brennan laughed merrily as she said, "Don't, please." Smiling at him, she said, "If it makes you feel any better, you already seem to know much more than I did when first I was expected to be bedded."

"Well, yeah," he conceded. "But, you're a girl. I mean, a woman. That's how it's supposed to be for you, but for someone like me, I'm a man. I'm supposed to know what to do, and not feel embarrassed when I'm about to have the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen let me bed her and all I can do is stutter and blush when I can't even manage to say the words 'penetrate' or 'rut' or 'copulate' without thinking you're going to change your mind once you see what a buffoon I really am." The words tumbled from his mouth as his eyes winced at hearing them.

Leaning forward, she reached for his hand and placed it on her thigh. "I don't think you're a buffoon, Booth," she said with a smile. "If anything, I find it quite appealing that you're so flustered. And, as to the rest, while I'm sure we'll have ample opportunity to both rut and copulate, I think I can definitively say that, well, unless you plan on disappointing me in a very significant way, you're going to be penetrating me in very short order." Nodding in a downward motion with her head, she said, "Do you see? That's where you need to go." Booth stood there tensely, glancing down at the glistening pink flesh between her legs and the damp auburn curls that framed it. "Touch me, Booth," she encouraged him. "I want you to touch me. Go ahead. It's alright. Touch me...right there. Please."

Booth's brow knit low over his eyes as he reached for her, at first only wrapping his fingers around the springy, wiry curls between her legs. She rubbed her palm over his naked hip, silently reassuring him, as he seemed fascinated with the texture of the hair that sat atop her wet, moist folds. After a minute, he took another long breath and brushed the back of his fingers across the damp curls that covered either side of her lips.

"Ohhh, that's it," she whispered, a pleading edge to her soft words. "But, more. I need more, Booth. You must...you must not be afraid of the flesh, Booth. You must touch me. I want you to touch me. I _need _you to touch me."

He bit his lip in concentration for a moment and then, at her urging, he turned his hand and dragged his two forefingers along the length of her opening, gasping as he felt the creamy moisture that had gathered there.

"Ahhhh..." she hissed lightly.

"Good?" he whispered.

Rapidly shaking her head, she nodded, "For a start, yes. But, more, Booth. I need more. And, my body's telling you that, you see? Can you tell? What you feel on your fingers—it means I'm ready for you...that's...all because of you," she said quietly. "All for you. My body wants you. That's how you know how much want I feel for you. So, you must...you must touch me...touch inside...inside of me."

He hesitated again, then slowly pressed his finger into her entrance. The blood was roaring loud in his ears that he didn't even hear her sharp intake of breath as she relished the pleasurable feeling of his fingertip as it lightly rimmed her entrance. Instead, as he made a slow and tortuous circle to complete his preliminary exploratory expedition, he said quietly, "It's so small." He paused as he sought out her eyes again. "Surely I will hurt you if I try to put...well, to put myself inside you in this spot?" He withdrew his finger, his brow working up and down as he worried about what to do. He wanted her so badly, and his own body was painfully reminding him what it wanted, but he was afraid to hurt her. "Are you certain that's what you want me to do?"

"Of course," Brennan said, trying to suppress a laugh. "Don't forget that a baby's head can pass through that opening, Booth." She reached out and lightly grasped him in one of her hands. As she used her fist to pump his hard length a couple of times, she grinned when she heard him suck in a sharp breath of air just as she had a moment earlier, before she let her hand fall away. "And, while you're extremely well-endowed, Booth, I don't think you're any freak of nature in this consideration. So, while I'm not any expert from a vast past body of experiences myself, I think I feel quite certain in saying that since my body is wet and ready with want of you, as long as we go slow, I'm quite certain that you will fit inside me without causing me any pain."

He considered her words, smiled lightly at her again, and then nodded.

"Just go slowly," she advised.

Booth again nodded, and then he inserted his finger again, pushing deeper and further than this time until he was pressed into her up to the knuckle, sucking in a breath at the way she felt inside as he experimented moving his finger inside her. The feel of her made his already dry throat go much drier as he reveled in how she felt—so silky and warm, so wet and soft... in a word, wonderful.

For her part, Brennan felt as if he were beginning to slowly drive her insane. Squeezing her eyes shut, she grunted, "Ooooh, God, Booth. Please. You're torturing me this way."

"Tell me what to do," he told her, slowly removing his finger as she whimpered again.

"Inside me," she said. "You must...I want you inside me, but not your finger. You...all of you," she muttered. Opening her eyes, she asked, "Do you understand what I want from you?"

Taking a half step back as he watched her, Booth gave her a toothy grin as he fisted his own hardened flesh. "Yes, I think I do. Now?"

"If you don't get inside of me, right now," she told him, chuckling nervously from the pure want of him that she felt, "Then I will either die, or I will go crazy from the want of you, and I'll have to kill you." She felt relief at seeing a smile break across his face again. "Please," she whispered, as she furiously nodded at him. "Yes. Please—now."

Booth straightened his back and rolled his shoulders as if to thereby summon up a last measure of confidence before he took a half step closer to her and leaned his hips into hers. Brennan spread her legs wider as he lined up his swollen, glistening tip at her entrance. He looked into her pale eyes, looking deeply into them—a little surprised to see them darker than he had seen them before—before she nodded. He leaned in and pressed into her, his mouth falling open and a long moan passing from his lips as he felt her moist inner folds part when he entered her.

"Oh, God," she whispered as she felt him, hard and thick, fill her up. "Booth—" He was larger than her late husband Timothy had been, but she was so wet, her body brokered no resistance as he slid into her, finally coming to rest as his balls smacked lightly against the round, white flesh of her buttocks. "_Ahhhh_..."

"Ohhhhh," he groaned as he tortuously pulled out as slowly as he could. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the soft flesh of her hips as he slowly pressed into her again. "Are you...alright?" he asked as he buried himself into her to the hilt once more. "Does this...feel as it...should? Does it...feel...good?"

"_Yeeeeessss_," she hissed, as she sharply nodded her head. "But...I need you...you _must_ move—do not be afraid. You cannot hurt me...you're doing exactly what you're supposed to do." She leaned her head back and sighed. "That's how...that is...that's how this works."

He shifted his jaw from side to side, and then nodded as he withdrew, before he rolled his hips back a little as he stroked into her. Each time he stroked into her, he pressed a bit harder, and entered her a bit faster, soon settling into a natural rhythm. He felt as though the hemispheres of his mind were being ripped apart, so intense was the sensation of being buried inside of her, her body seemingly drawing him in as he jerked into her. Booth soon found himself spinning towards another release, one even more powerful than the one he'd experienced as she'd stroked him to the night before, and as he began to spend towards that release, he felt himself lose control. Her hands kneaded the globes of his ass, pulling him even deeper into her with pounding stroke.

"_Brennan—_" he cried out softly as he fell against her.

Booth felt his legs tremble as every muscle in his body tensed, allowing him one last grinding stroke into her before he shuddered, exploding inside of her with a loud grunt. She pulled him into her, holding him against her as she felt the contents of his release pulse into her, his head dropping and his chin resting on her shoulder as he rode out the last of his convulsions.

"Ohhh," she whispered, sliding her hands up the long, rippled plane of his back to touch the side of his head. After a minute, as he continued to lean against her, but hadn't moved to greet her eyes, she sensed some of his nervous hesitation returning for some inexplicable reason. Determined to let nothing further separate them, she whispered to him, "Booth? Look at me."

"I can't—" he whispered, his throat raspy as he uttered the two simple words.

"Please," she said. "Look at me, Booth." After a minute, he reluctantly lifted his head from where it had fallen to rest her shoulder. Cupping the sides of his head, her palms just under his ears, she smiled. "That is how it is," she said simply. "When a man and a woman come together...this is the start of things. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he said breathlessly, his face flush and a lazy grin hanging on his lips. He licked his lips and then pressed a light kiss to her mouth. After a few seconds, she felt whatever guilt or uncertainty he'd felt at their coupling dissipate instantly, and all she could sense in him was a buoyant jubilation. Looking up at her, he asked, "Was it—did I...are you alright?"

Brennan nodded as he wordlessly stepped back with a bit of a stumble as he slipped out of her. "I am," she said with a languid smile, pulling his mouth to hers and kissing him tenderly once again before she added, "Very much so. Are you?"

He ran his hand over the back of his head. "Yes," he replied with a laugh, closing his eyes as he struggled to regain his bearings. "Are you sure you're―?"

While she was glad he felt some measure of release, Brennan nibbled the inside of her lip as she thought of how to express what she wanted to say. She still ached with a strong unsatisfied need of him, but wasn't quite certain how to educate him on that finer point without making him feel as if he'd done something wrong. However, as the steady pulse of her unsatiated arousal reminded her that she, too, needed some measure of relief, she knew she needed to be honest with him. Swallowing once, she placed her hand on his chest, her fingers spread fanlike over his breastbone before she spoke. "I'm certain I'm fine and that you didn't hurt me."

"But?" he asked, the nervous hesitation clear in his voice.

"But," she said with a small nod, "I'm not as well as I might be."

"What do you mean?" he asked her, his voice calm and gentle as his dark brown eyes blinked at her with tender concern.

"I mean," Brennan began to explain. "Do you know the feeling of relief you felt just now?" she asked.

"Yes," he nodded with a sweet smile as he grinned at her with an almost palpable excitement. "It was unreal―unlike anything I have ever felt before."

She cocked her head to one side and smiled before she continued. "Well," she began, "that feeling you've had―it isn't something that only a man can feel. A woman can feel this way, too, but it...well...it's not achieved quite the same way."

"I-I...did I do something wrong?" he asked, his eyebrows arched with concern. "I...but...that is, I thought you said―"

Brennan shook her head, hoping to allay his fears. "No," she said quickly. "You didn't do anything wrong, I swear it." She paused and looked up at the timbered ceiling before she said, "It's just that...I have certain needs as well, and I can...well, I can teach you how to do this for me―so that you can help me feel the way you felt when you attained release since I didn't feel it the first time...not because you did anything wrong, Booth, but because things are slightly different for men in that respect than women. Normally, it can be achieved at the same time if both partners know how the other likes to be touched, but since this was not only _our _first time, but also yours, it wasn't as important for me then for you to touch me in a way that would bring me release. But, now...I must admit, Booth—I still feel as if I'm bordering on the edge of madness with the want of you that I feel." She smiled at him, brushing the side of her hand under his rough, stubbled chin. "If I show you what to do, will you help me?"

"Of course," he whispered, a vaguely sheepish expression on his face. " I would like that. Very much so. Whatever you want me to do, just tell me. I'd do anything to bring you even one-tenth of the pleasure that you've just brought me. Just tell me what to do. Especially—" He blushed and looked away, as he said quietly, "Is it a bad thing for me to tell you that I want to...well...to do it again?" He grinned and raised his eyebrows expectantly as he waited for her to answer.

She snickered with a slight shake of her head. "No," she said with a lascivious smile. "I would like that―so long as you let me help you help me reach the kind of release that you enjoyed the first time. Because, well, to be perfectly honest with you here, Booth, I'm feeling a bit, well..." Her words trailed off as she grinned awkwardly.

"Tell me," he said insistently, reaching for her and closing his large, strong hand around her upper arm. "You must tell me, please."

"As I said, do you remember how you felt when you felt tempted and aroused, but could not obtain relief?" she asked. "The way you were explaining how you felt to me when you came to me last night?" She saw the comprehension flicker in his soft brown eyes. "Well, it's perhaps not _quite _that bad, actually, because I know how to achieve relief for myself if I needed to touch myself, but I feel a little bit like that now...and I'd much rather feel my orgasm spend because of how you're touching me...moving inside me. Please?"

Booth nodded, squeezing her arm gently before leaning into her, bringing his hand to her breast and passing his fingers over her nipple briefly as he tilted his head and brought his lips to hers. She opened her mouth to him instantly, and for several long moments they kissed, their lips grasping at one another with a certain desperation. He felt himself get harder with each pass of her tongue over his, and within a minute or two, his body left no question but that it was ready for a second turn. He felt his heart begin to race, the blood roaring in his ears as his rigid arousal brushed against the smooth skin on the inside of her thigh.

"Shhhh," she whispered, pulling her mouth away from his as she pressed gently against his chest to interrupt his enthusiastic ministrations. "Wait, wait." He looked at her, somewhat disappointed and droopy-eyed as he struggled to catch his breath, thrusting his hip into hers with a lopsided grin. "I know, I know." She laughed. "Just...give me a moment to think," she said quietly, looking around the room as she assessed their options.

She smirked lightly, wishing he had come to her cell a bit earlier the night before, so that they might have been able to enjoy the comforts of a bed—a far less comfortable bed than Brennan was used to sleeping in when she was in her own home, but a bed nonetheless. She slid off the edge of the table and stood up on shaky feet, and he backed away as she stood up, the features of his face slackened in mild confusion.

"What?" he croaked, his brown eyes shining as black as volcanic glass with want as he watched her, her milky skin glowing as she walked into a wide shaft of mid-morning light that cut across the middle of the room. "I thought...don't you—?"

"Yes, Booth," she chuckled. "God, I do. But, this isn't the easiest of places to do this, so we have to make do." His forehead crinkled as he watched her, a smile cracking across his face as his eyes scanned the gentle curve where the small of her back met the smooth, flat space above her round, white ass. She then turned around and spot the empty chair where she had been seated in during the four prior meetings between them—excepting, of course, the meeting in her cell the night before. Gesturing towards it, she said softly, "Yes, I think that will do."

"What?" he asked.

"That chair," she told him. "Sit in that chair."

"Why?" he asked even as he walked over to the heavy, broad-backed, armless oak chair and sat down. Then, a look of recognition passed over his face, quickly followed by a spreading grin. "Ohhhh..."

"There, you see?" she snickered as she admired the way he looked seated in the chair, his arousal firm and jutting out from the crisp bed of curls as straight as a pike when he'd situated himself as comfortably as he could. "Now, there's one thing you forgot to do before."

The smile fled Booth's face as she stepped between his spread legs, stroking her finger along the outside of his thigh, teasing the curls of light brown hair with her fingertips. "What?" he asked. "I thought you were going to teach me—"

"Before that," she told him with another laugh. "Remember, killing two birds with one stone? You still have some work about you since you need to inspect my body for a sign of my guilt, do you not?" She cocked her head and blinked prettily.

He raised his chin, took a breath, and arched a suggestive eyebrow. "Yes," he replied, his voice deep as he grabbed her hips, pulling her close and twirling her around so that she faced away from him. "Forgive me. For some strange reason, I nearly forgot." Laughter flickered in Booth's eyes as the brightness in his voice betrayed the fact that he had a fairly good idea of why his otherwise-healthy memory had suddenly failed him.

He swiped his hand over the outside of her round, fleshy hip, stroked his big thumb back and forth over the curve of her narrow waist and then brought his hand back around across her spine. He slid his forefinger up the gentle indentation that ran up the middle of her back, drawing his fingers in a fanlike motion over her shoulder blades and cupping the round edge where her shoulder met her firm, ever so slightly toned upper arm. He closed his hand loosely over her arm and felt the goosebumps rise from her skin as his hand skated over the length of her arm, across the top of her hand, gently squeezing the tip of her middle finger before proceeding down the front of her thigh and back around to her perfectly-shaped buttocks.

"You're amazing," he whispered. "Your skin is..." He swallowed, his voice catching in his throat as he felt a tingle in his fingertips. "Like the finest marble. When I was in Italy—I spent most of the last ten years in Italy, you see—and there are a set of incredible marble sculptures in the gardens at the Vatican in Rome. Ancient sculptures, dating back to the days of the Caesars, like _il Gruppo del Laocoönte_—"

"Laocoön and His Sons," she interjected with a smile. "It portrays a Trojan high priest and his two sons, Antiphantes and Thymbraeus, as they are being strangled and drawn under by sea serpents."

"Yes," Booth acknowledged with nod and a pleased smile as he felt another stab of surprise at the wonder of the female before him. "You're quite an interesting woman, aren't you?" He shook his head as he saw her turn her head and grin at him in acknowledgement. "The way your skin looks and feels, is like the most amazing, perfect marble, except that marble is cold, even in the heat of the Italian summer. But your skin is so warm. It's..." He shrugged and laughed quietly. "You probably think I'm mad."

"No," she said quietly, turning her head again to glance at him over her shoulder. "It's just that—no one has ever said anything like that to me before."

"That's a pity," he said, gently turning her to face him again. "It's long overdue, then." He took a deep breath and began his survey of the front of her body. "Because you..."

He let his voice trail off again, in that moment not wanting to devote an iota of unnecessary mental energy to anything other than experiencing the way her form looked in the morning light and the way her warm skin, smooth curves and unique textures felt beneath his fingertips. Admiring her ivory skin, his eyes fell on her wrists, where the porcelain-like smoothness was marred by reddened, scabbed-over scrapes and deep, purple bruises. He gently clasped her hands in his and pulled her wrists to his lips, softly brushing his lips across the cuts and gouges in her skin. Lifting his gaze to meet hers, he waited until she held his glance for a few pointed seconds and nodded at him with a pleased smile before he moved on in his assessment. His hands flew up to her breasts, his thumbs swiping over the points of her nipples before his hands once more rolled to the side, his long, thick fingers bracing the undersides of her breasts, weighing them briefly before he turned his hands, sliding them over the edge of her ribcage and along the sides of her belly. His right hand paused as it neared her waist, and he traced his index finger over a slightly-raised mole on the left side of her waist, just above the swell of her hip.

"Hmmm," Booth murmured. "This could be something here..." He looked up at her and saw her face pale. "Relax," he whispered. "It appears natural enough. In fact..." He leaned forward in the chair and turned her hip just a bit to see the mark more clearly. "Yes," he said, kissing it gently and smiling into her soft skin. "Quite natural," he whispered. "And beautiful."

Brennan breathed a sigh of relief. "Don't frighten me that way," she grumbled. "To tease me in such a way, after six weeks of this, it's not nice. You have to know that I—"

"I'm sorry," he apologized, his eyes wide and his lips pouting in genuine contrition. "I may never have seen a woman's naked flesh up close like this before," he said. "But I've seen many renderings of feminine beauty, some of them nudes, in the ten-odd years I spent in Italy and France, and I must tell you, Brennan. You're more beautiful than any of them. More beautiful. Without..." He leaned in and kissed her navel, pulling his lips away before moving in again and letting his tongue dart out to trace a tiny circle around the rim of her navel. "Without a doubt." Brennan sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth at the sensation. "Did you like that?" he asked with a smile. "Mmmmm..." He covered her navel with his mouth and kissed it again, applying just a touch of suction. "Because I did."

"So does this mean that you've concluded your work, then? Are you satisfied?" she asked. He pulled his mouth away as he looked up into her glittering gray-green eyes. "Not—not in that way." She laughed softly. "That is to say, are you satisfied that I do not bear the witch's mark?"

He narrowed his eyes and smiled up at her. "Almost," he said. "But...not quite." He looked down again, rimming her navel once more with his tongue, which caused her abdominal muscles to tighten and her hips to jerk away from him. "A few more places, I think, just to be certain," he whispered as he nuzzled his nose into the mass of auburn curls between her legs, inhaling deeply as he pressed his lips against her mound. "Ohhhh," he sighed as his nostrils filled with the smell of her and, though he didn't know it, the scent of their joining. "Oh, my...ohhh...I can't understand it since I just had you, but it's almost as if we haven't bedded at all. How can this be? But, I'm already burning for you again. I need you...and, ohh...I want you so badly, wench."

"Patience," she whispered, even as she felt him wiggle his ass against the chair in which he was seated, and she became a bit concerned he'd spend too quickly before she had a chance to match him this time. "You must have patience, Booth. The key to unlocking a woman's desire is banking the embers of want, slowly." She hissed quietly as she felt his thumb pass over the cleft between her legs. "It will make it...ohhh...more intense for you, too." She sucked in another sharp breath between her teeth as he nudged her legs apart with a shove of his muscular forearm. He ran his hands down the insides of her thighs and back behind her knees, then up the backs of her legs over her hamstrings. "If I didn't know better," she murmured. "I might've guessed you have done this before."

"I haven't, though," he said, stroking his fingertips over the soft, springy flesh at the base of her ass where her thighs and buttocks met. "I love this place," he whispered. "Right here." He murmured something unintelligible before he gently squeezed her cheeks in his hands. "You're just an excellent teacher."

"And you," she said, the last word falling as a gasp. "Are...a quick learner."

"I was told once," he said with a smile as he once more brought his face up to meet her gaze, "when I was at Padua, by a master of mathematics, Monsigniore Fernández de la Vega, who came from Granada, that I have a _very _steep learning curve."

"Little did he know," she quipped, "how truly _catholic _your talent for learning really is."

Booth grinned at the joke then narrowed his eyes again, his brow knitting hard and low over his dark, deep-set eyes. "Enough, woman," he said, his voice nearly a growl. "My work in that concern is done. I'm satisfied that I've found no evidence of any witch's mark or unnaturalness on you. So, that being said, I believe it high time we conclude this examination, don't you think?" He glanced down at the damp curls between her legs. "Tell me what to do," he said, his voice suddenly tense with palpable vulnerability. "Because I want you again. So much...so very much. So, please, tell me...tell me you feel the same? Tell me what to do to give you the release you seek...that you deserve. Please. Tell me...please."

"I'll show you," she said with the same half-grin that had unwound him before, as she turned around and bent her knees as she nudged his closer together. As she lowered herself to the point where she was nearly straddling him, she reached between her legs and grasped his thick and rigid length, lining herself up over him.

"What are you...doing?" he croaked. "_Ohhhh_," he groaned as he felt his tip pressing ever so slightly into her opening, which was creamy and wet from their earlier joining as well as her current arousal. "Ohhhh..._nnnnnngggthh..._" He clenched his eyes shut as she lowered herself onto him. "Ahhhh, God," he cried, his conscious mind no longer caring that his utterance was blasphemous and sinful on so many levels. "_Ohhhh, Brennan._"

"Ohhhhh, ahhhh..._Booo-oothh_," she groaned as she felt him fill her up as she slowly lowered herself all the way down onto him. She gasped as she felt his hands grab onto her hips, the pads of his fingertips digging deep into her flesh as she raised herself up. "Let me lead," she hissed, begging him as her appeal colored her tone of voice. "Please. I need—you can't...we can't...this mustn't be rushed. So, please...be patient just a bit more and let me set the pace, alright?"

"Yes," he whispered, craning his neck as his eyes rolled back at the mind-numbing sensation of being inside of her again. "Ohhh..._yeeessss_...ohhh..."

"Give me your hand," Brennan muttered as she tried to divide her limited focus between, on the one hand, the amazing feel of him opening her up from the inside out with every stroke she made, raising and lowering herself onto him, and the fact that she wanted—no, _needed_—to teach him how to bring her to the point of a shattering release. She smiled to herself as she felt him loosen his grip on her with his right hand and reach his hand around to the front of her hip. She grabbed his wrist and forced his hand down between her legs. She placed her index finger over his and guided him to the place she wanted him. "Do you feel that, there?" she asked him breathlessly. "That...the firm spot...there?" She felt him nod against her back. "You know you're in the right..._ooooh_...place..." She exhaled slowly and took a deep breath as she tried to hold his impatient hand back. "You know you're in the right...place because you'll...you'll feel a firm little ridge kind of running up...Booth—do you feel that?"

"Yes," he whispered. "What am I supposed to..._ohhhh_..._nnnnngth_..." He swallowed hard and leaned his forehead lightly against the curvature of her back as she continued to move up and down at a languid pace. "What should I do?"

"Circles," she gasped as his two forefingers closed over the place she had guided him to—her most sensitive flesh, and she felt him begin to move. "Just..._oohhh _sweet heaven...just...like that..._ohhh_..."

Booth raised his head a little and pressed a gentle kiss against the sweat-damp skin of her back as he began to make circles with his fingers over the small, firm piece of warm flesh she had shown him. He felt himself move in and out of her opening and wondered at the strangeness of it, feeling his rigid length penetrate her immediately below the tiny organ that he worked feverishly with the pads of his fingers, it being everything in his power not to thrust up into her, but, remembering her admonition to let her lead, he kept his seat, his hips squirming only slightly as occasionally the sensation became so intense he simply _had _to move.

"Ohhhh...ohhh, my God," she moaned as she felt her mind squeezed between the twin sensations of his fingers rolling circles over her slippery nub as she moved up and down over his hard length. "I'm...ohhhh...it's...ohhhhh..."

Booth felt himself spiraling towards his second release of the morning, but a voice in the back of his head—one that was somehow, despite it all, still capable of cobbling together a coherent thought—told him to hold himself together as long as he possibly could.

"Are you—?" he choked. "Brennan...Temperance, are you...have you?"

"Almost," she whispered, sucking in a breath as she increased the pace of her grinding movements. Booth followed her lead and moved his fingers in tighter and tighter, faster and faster circles as he felt the muscles of her back tense beneath his lips. He kept pressing gentle kisses against her sweat-glistened back as he heard her moans become louder and higher.

"Ohhh...ohhhhhh...ooooohhhhh...ohhhhhhh..." Finally, she drew in a sharp breath and grunted loudly, then cried out one last time. "Ohhhh...ohhhh...ohh!"

He felt her insides tense around him, clenching his cock, then loosen again in a series of soft, fluttering spasms.

"Ohhh, Booth," she moaned softly as she pushed his hand away from her now painfully sensitive flesh as it tingled in the aftermath of her powerful orgasm. "Let go, Booth." She slowed her movements somewhat, leaning her head back as she said to him again. "It's alright. I'm...I'm alright. So, let go. You can let go now."

He needed no further instruction as he growled, at last allowing himself to jerk up into her, once, twice and a third time before he grunted, squeezing her hips with his fingers as he broke, finally letting go as his release pulsed up and into her once more.

"Ohhhh," he moaned as the last drops of his release spurted into her. He relaxed his hands, cupping his hands over the round swell of her hips as he leaned his sweat-beaded forehead against the damp skin of her back.

"Ohh, yes," she whispered, her shoulders slumping as every thread of tension had unravelled, leaving her spent and fulfilled. "Good, so very...very good."

After a moment, Brennan downed several deep breaths of air as she leaned her back heavily against Booth's warm chest. She could feel the stickiness of their combined sweat causing their skin to stick together in a way that might've been unpleasant at any other time or place and under any other type of circumstances. However, as she tried to catch her breath and see if she could get her brain to work once more, Brennan was content to sit in Booth's lap, still joined, as they both tried to come to terms with what had just happened between them.

A couple of more minutes passed before she felt his lips on the back of her neck. She smiled in spite of herself at the tenderness of the gesture. Slowly, she turned her head around so that she could see his eyes. Still smiling, she nodded slightly as she said softly, "Don't you dare."

Booth, the confusion evident on his flushed, handsome face, arched an eyebrow at her as he asked, "What?"

"This is the part where you're supposed to say something trite, isn't it?" Brennan asked, only half jesting in her response. "That you're sorry that you hurt me or that you don't know what just happened, but that you regret it, and we can never let something like this happen again, right?"

Booth thought about her words for a moment before he raised his eyebrows and gave her a slightly crooked grin. "Well, if I had hurt you, I would be sorry, but since you said I didn't, I won't. And, it's true, I'm not sure what it was that just happened...either time, aside from the fact that it felt really, really good, so I don't regret it in the least. And I definitely think we need to do whatever we can as soon as possible to ensure that we can let this happen again and in fairly short order since I know I really am going to want to do it again...with you...that is, if you want to?"

His charming, boyish hesitation made Brennan smile again. She shifted in his lap as she tilted her head so that she could kiss him as he leaned forward, his face hovering over her shoulder. After a second, they broke apart before things became too heated, and she said playfully, "Whenever you want...Booth."

"Mmmm," he said, squeezing his arms around her. "I rather think I like the sound of that."

"What?" Brennan asked. "The fact that I'm amenable to the idea of us bedding again...perhaps, next time if we're lucky enough, even in a bed?"

"Well, yes," he chuckled. "That, too. But...no, I meant my name. When you say my name...no one's ever said it like that before, and I think I really like it—hearing you say it that way. "

Brennan considered his words and then nodded. "Oh," she said. "Well, alright—"

"You're the first one who's ever called me that...Temperance," he said, as if testing the taste of her name on the end of his tongue.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Brennan made a pinched expression with her face like she'd just swallowed something distastefully sour.

"What?" he asked, noting her look of displeasure.

"It's just that...my grandmother...my father's mother," she explained. "Her name was Temperance, and I was named after her, and whenever anyone says it out loud like that, I think of Grandmother...and not me."

"Ahh," Booth said, as clarity granted him understanding of her point. "So, what does everyone call you then?"

"Mostly Tempe," she replied simply. "But...I like the fact that no one else calls you 'Booth', so maybe we could find something else that no one else but you calls me?"

"Like what?" he asked her. "Besides 'impertinent wench,' I mean," he added with another lopsided grin that Brennan was coming to realize she greatly adored.

"Aside from my father and brother, everyone else calls me Brennan," she said. "I think mostly because it's easier than saying 'Mistress Brennan,' especially when I'm out working with my clients. Maybe—"

"How about Bren?" Booth asked suddenly, blurting it out as the idea came to him. "It's short, simple...and I think I'd particularly enjoy groaning it when you were doing that thing that you were doing a little bit ago with your hips."

Brennan wiggled her ass, and Booth groaned slightly at her movements as he felt his softened flesh move inside of her. "Like that?" she asked breathlessly.

Booth moaned again, his eyes narrowing to slits as he nodded with a grunt, "Yeah, that." Grinding against him again, Brennan's smile grew as he crooned into her ear, "Bren—"

"Mmmmm," she crooned. "I think I like the sound of that," she told him, repeating his earlier words.

"You're going to be the death of me," he whispered into her ear, suddenly reaching for her earlobe and nipping on it slightly to get her attention. "I thought you said I...what we did the second time...that you achieved release as I did?"

"I did," Brennan murmured. "I did have an orgasm, just as you did. But, unlike men, women are able to have multiple orgasms if the circumstances are right and their partners are patient...and persistent."

"Mmmmm," he moaned into her ear. He had to stifle a yawn as he said, "As much as I'd love to test that hypothesis, I...I don't think I can spend again so soon, Bren. I'm so tired."

"Men have a longer refraction time," Brennan murmured. "As it is, I'm surprised, slightly, that a man of your age could perform so...impressively, twice, in such a short period of time."

"Hey," Booth said with a slightly offended pout. "Did you just call me old?"

"I don't know," Brennan laughed. "I don't even know how old you are." She recalled Angela having mentioned something about the young priest's age, but in her post-orgasmic haze, she couldn't remember.

"Thirty," he said, laying a soft kiss at the base of her neck. "Last fall, I celebrated my thirtieth birthday."

"Not so old then," she reassured him with a smile. "Just making up for lost time, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," he grinned back at her with a wicked glint in his eye. Placing another kiss on her shoulder, he then said, "We should dress. I...I'm not certain what to do next, but I know I'm hungry and tired...and I'd say this...interrogation session has gone as far as it can go today—as have I."

Reluctantly, Brennan stood up, wincing faintly as he slipped out of her. Her knees were a bit shaky, and Booth couldn't help himself as he reached out and placed a hand on each of her curvy hips to steady her. Smiling down at him, she said, "You've gotten some useful information then, have you?"

Grinning at her, he nodded. Letting his hands trace the curve of her hips to the swell of her ass, he pulled her to him, glad that she was once more facing him so he could gaze directly into her eyes. "Yes, very. Most definitely useful...and then some," he told her. He then paused before he gave her a cheeky look as he added, "I think I can say honestly and without any doubt or reservations whatsoever that this has been the _best _interrogation that I've ever had the pleasure and fortune to be involved with...ever."

"Ahh," Brennan chuckled with a slight waggle of her eyebrows. "You're just saying that."

"No," he said as he tilted his head so that her lips could meet his as she bent down to meet him halfway. "I don't..." He kissed her softly. "I mean it, Bren. This...today—what just happened. I'm not quite certain what it is or what it means, but I know it's very special to me..._very _special."

"Special enough so that you'll try to come to me tonight?" she asked with a hopeful look as she arched her eyebrow at him in askance.

Slowly, he nodded, his grin turning lopsided once more. "Just try to keep me away," he dared her with a gleam in his warm brown eyes.

"I'll be waiting then," Brennan said before she pressed her lips to his once more in a searing kiss. "Because it was pretty special to me, too."

Instead of responding once more with words, Booth decided to let his lips and tongue answer for him. And, fortunately for them both, Brennan got the message perfectly.

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><p><strong>AN: **_So there we are. Got a nice little physics demonstration there, hmm? Things have changed, haven't they? Two people have become one, yet still, in a sense, so much separates them. She is still a prisoner of the Inquisition, and he is still an Inquisitor with a job to do. But he believes her, and wants to help her. And she trusts him. Can he save her?_

_We're guessing you want to know what happens next. Well, we can't wait to show you. Chapter 9 is in edits and we promise it won't take as long to get ready as Chapter 8 did. (No, really, it won't.)_

_In the meantime, we hope Chapter 8 met your expectations. However, since Avalon doesn't work for us (how cool would it be if she did? maybe she'd give us singing tarot card readings), and because neither Lesera128 or dharmamonkey are psychic, we need you to tell us how we're doing._

_Please take the time to leave us a review. Go ahead and click that wee review button down there. Yeah, that big, sparkly bright blue one that the FFnet people decided to redesign after all of Dharmasera's lobbying for a more prominent review button. _

_You know what to do and where to do it. Oh, please. Don't be coy. Yes, our darlings, that button right there._

_Thanks. We love you guys!_


	9. A Summer Storm

**The Inquisitor**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128  
><strong>Rated: <strong>M  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox by adverse possession. ::blinks:: Okay, not really. But, you get the gist.

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><p><strong><span>AN: **_We, the ladies of Dharmasera, Inc. want to take a moment to thank everyone who's been following "The Inquisitor." The interest in this piece has far surpassed our expectations. It really means a lot to know there are so many people out there waiting with baited breath for each update so they can find out what's happening with the good Father Seeley and Mistress Brennan. Who knew the story of a 16th century priest and a heretical midwife would capture so many readers' imaginations? We weren't exactly sure, but we're thrilled you're all enjoying it. Really._

_One more thing (and this bit is a message from _**dharmamonkey**_): please don't forget that this piece, while posting under the monkey's profile, is absolutely a collaborative effort between _**Lesera128** _(who really came up with the idea that ultimately became "The Inquisitor") and_ **dharmamonkey**._ This is not my work alone. This is a true Dharmasera team effort. So please give _**Lesera128** _her_ _well-deserved props. _

**Unf Alert: **_As you might expect considering where we've taken the story up to this point, this chapter contains the kind of unfness that makes your cheeks flush, your ears turn a bit red and your foreheads dampen with sweat. So, please, if you don't care for reading about such things, please, stop now. Otherwise, read on, our friends, read on._

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><p><strong>Chapter 9: A Summer Storm<strong>

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><p>After they'd finished saying goodbye with not one, but four separate 'good-bye' kisses, Booth reluctantly tore himself away from Brennan. They dressed in silence, although every few seconds, each of them felt the other's eyes staring at them in admiration and longing. At last, when they were completely dressed and stood facing one another, they gave themselves one final look over to make certain that nothing seemed out of place or in anyway betrayed the intimacies they'd just shared. When Brennan sat down in her chair, sitting ramrod straight as she folded her hands demurely in her lap and crossed her legs, they both knew they were ready.<p>

How she managed to keep from even blushing as she sat back down in the chair in which they'd been doing such explicitly sinful and erotically pleasurable things was beyond Booth. However, somehow she managed it, and Booth knew that they'd stalled for as much time as was possible. Giving her one last look of happy and emotional vulnerability that he'd never shown anyone _but _her up to that point, he hardened his countenance and stiffened his posture as he let the mask of his religion and his profession fall back into place. Once more Father Seeley, Inquisitor of the Holy Mother Church, he strode purposefully towards the door, opened it, and gave a sharp order that he was done with the prisoner for the day and that she needed to be returned to her cell.

A short time later, Booth watched the guards nervously enter the room, careful to avert their eyes from him as they scrambled to where the prisoner sat. He had to swallow a sharp rebuke as he watched them re-attach Brennan's chains and shackles none too gently, roughly jerk her from the chair, and unceremoniously half-drag her away away from him. He stood in the doorway and watched as she was led down the hall in the direction of her cell. When no one was longer looking at him, he winced at the sound the heavy links made as they clattered against the stone floor with every step she took. He noticed with a flush of pride in his chest that Brennan didn't so much as flinch as they moved her. Nor, did she, he noticed with a tad bit of disappointment, even try to sneak a quick gaze over her shoulder to look back at him. It was if, but for the feelings and memories he had, nothing had changed between them.

However, Booth knew better. He knew it in his mind, in his heart, and in his soul. Something radically important had changed for both of them, something that meant that things would never, _ever _be the same for either one of them ever again. And, for that, Booth was eternally grateful.

After another minute, when he realized he was now alone in the hallway, he realized how odd it would seem if someone saw him. Looking down with a small sigh, Booth knew he needed a few moments to process what had just happened. He planned to retire to his room for a bit of time to think of what had just happened—and, more importantly, to figure out some way in which he could contrive an excuse to come to her that night as he'd promised. His heart skipped a beat as his already shallow breathing grew more labored as he thought of the pleasures that awaited them in just a few hours when he would make love to her properly, in a bed, with no fear that they'd be interrupted or discovered coloring what he hoped would be as an enjoyable encounter for her as he instinctively knew it would be for him. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he thought of how Brennan would feel beneath him as he moved, how she would taste, and the sounds she would make. Despite his earlier pronouncements that his lust had been sated for the afternoon, he felt his heart rate increase and his already flushed skin redden a bit more in excitement as he thought of her. Thus, Booth was fairly distracted as he began to turn around to reenter the interrogation room and gather what documents he would take back with him to his cell. As he started to move, his mind swirling with a thousand different thoughts as he tried to blink away the haze that lingered in the wake of the mind-shattering encounter he'd just had with Brennan, his unusually high level of distraction meant that he didn't notice the footsteps that softly approached from behind him.

"Father Seeley," Brother Gordon Wyatt's voice boomed in his ear, causing Booth to jump with surprise as he hastily turned around to face the other inquisitor. "God's blessings to you on this good day."

Booth let out a deep breath of relief when he saw who had caught him unawares. "Brother Wyatt," Booth said quietly, inclining his head respectfully at the elder friar. "Good day to you as well."

For a minute, Wyatt's watery blue eyes carefully studied the younger inquisitor. As he took in the sight before him, Wyatt's keen eyes widened as he considered the current state of the younger priest's appearance. Booth's face was flush, his skin damp with perspiration, and dark, heavy circles hung beneath his heavy-lidded brown eyes. Frowning a bit, the friar instantly thought back to a few nights before, when he'd sat across from Booth at the evening meal, and how the young priest—who normally had a hearty appetite, especially for savory dishes that Mistress Bernadette made _only _for the young priest when she'd discovered how much he liked her simple English fare, like chicken stew with dumplings—had picked at his food, hardly eating a bite. He also recalled also how Booth had admitted to having difficulty sleeping. Any one symptom might be something that he could dismiss, but when taken cumulatively, Wyatt felt a wave of protectiveness for Booth—a feeling he'd had since Pole had commanded that he take the younger man under his wing a month before—reassert itself. He let out a slow breath before he frowned and realized that whatever had caused the younger man's change in comportment, it couldn't be good.

"You don't look well, Father," Wyatt said. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," Booth said with a small shrug. "Tired, but fine. I'm sure I just need to retire to my room a bit before Vespers."

"Are you certain?" Wyatt asked as he gave Booth a dubious look. "I know it's rather forward of me to say it, but it seems to me that you haven't been your normal jovial self in some days, Father."

Booth swallowed nervously as he struggled for an answer. "I-I—"

"Father, remember, although I know it's your native land, it's been many years since you've sojourned in England. The illnesses and temptations to which a man can fall prey are different here than in any other part of the world." Wyatt paused, surveying Booth's face with a certain vague worry as he noted the labored rise of fall of the young priest's breaths. "That's why we always must remain vigilant and not be afraid to ask for help when we need it," he told him quietly.

Nodding, slowly as he realized that his breaths were coming in pants, Booth finally conceded, "I know that, Brother Wyatt. And, but for a bit of a quick pulse, I assure you that I'm quite well—just fatigued."

"A quick pulse?" Wyatt frowned as he took a step towards Booth. "What do you mean?"

"It's just that my heart has been racing a bit—" Booth said, flushing as he realized that he'd said more than he'd intended, and wasn't quite sure how to get out of it without saying the wrong thing that could be a danger to both Brennan and himself. "I'm sure it's nothing. Really, Brother."

Shaking his lips, his thin lips pursed, Wyatt reached up and placed his forefingers on the pulse point on Booth's neck. His already somber eyes immediately grew alight with a serious wave of concern as he felt Booth's pulse. "Holy Mother of God," he whispered as he felt Booth's rapid heartbeat throb beneath his fingertips. "Your heart, Father..."

"It's nothing," Booth said a bit more sharply than he'd initially intended even as he pushed Wyatt's hand away. "I assure you, Brother Wyatt, I'm quite fine. I promise. I'm just unused to the heat and that room is so very stifling. It's very stuffy in there, and I'm sure a bit of fresh air and a period of solid uninterrupted rest will make my headache go away—"

Wyatt blanched as Booth spoke. He suddenly remembered the way his sixteen year-old nephew, Walter, had looked when he fell ill and died from the sweating sickness seven years earlier, in the summer of 1551. At first, the vigorous young man had been on the brink of manhood, ready to take up a post in the Queen's army as a bowman in the infantry. He'd been the apple of both his father and mother's eyes. Then, one day, he'd awakened not quite his normal usually buoyant and jovial self. Like Father Seeley, it seemed, Walter's illness had seemed much like any other cold, with the young man initially complaining of shallow breaths, exhaustion, a headache, and a lack of appetite. But, then, soreness in his muscles and an extreme sensitivity to light heralded the arrival of a much dire prognosis than the sniffles.

In a matter of hours, the boy was overtaken by a sudden fever that caused him to sweat profusely and his pulse to race as he spiraled into a delirium from which he'd never recovered. He was dead before the sun rose the following morning. Wyatt had offered wondered if Walter's life might've been saved if he'd seen a doctor as soon as the first symptoms had manifested instead of waiting until the fever had taken him. By, then, of course, it had been too late to do anything for Walter. Wyatt had vowed on the day his nephew had died that he'd never make the same mistake again. And, maybe, the knowledge that he'd taken from Walter's passing had been a part of God's plan so that he would know what to do when confronted with an eerily similar set of circumstances with Father Seeley. His decision made, he shook his head sharply as he looked at the younger man.

"No," Wyatt said insistently, grabbing Booth by the arm. "I'm afraid that's not good enough. We can't take any chances—not with symptoms like this and not with you. I'm taking you to the infirmary, Father. Directly. As in, immediately—right now." Booth began to shake his head and opened his mouth to speak as he tried to shrug free of Wyatt's grasp, and counter the older man's sudden impressive show of stubbornness. However, Wyatt was not to be challenged on this point. He tightened his grip of Booth's arm as he dragged the younger man in the direction of the makeshift infirmary that had been set up not too far from Mistress Bernadette's kitchen. The mental image of his dying nephew spurred Wyatt on in his resolve. Cutting off Booth, he said sharply, "No, this is _not _up for discussion, Father. You're coming with me—_now._"

"But," Booth still protested, turning around and looking back down the corridor where Brennan had been taken and realizing that with each step that Wyatt made in the opposite direction, he was taking them further and further from one another.

_Damn it, _he cursed silently. _No. This isn't happening. I have to_—_I need to be free to get to her. I can't let her think that I've just taken the precious gift she's given me and abandoned her once the taking of it was done. No, I just can't. I won't. I must be free to be able to go to her. She'll be expecting me. I must_—

"I'm...look, it's really nothing, Brother, and—"

"Father," Wyatt snapped, placing the palm of his hand on Booth's clammy cheek and turning the younger man's face so that their eyes met as he spoke in an impressive tone that brokered no contradiction as the older man spoke—and from Booth's standpoint, as a widely traveled man who had conversed with popes, kings, nobles, and princes of the Church...well, _that _was saying something. "I'm the definitor of this divine constituency of ours, Father, and I must insist that you go to the infirmary. And, that's the end of this discussion. We are going to the infirmary, and we are going now," Wyatt told him in a firm voice. Booth again tried to speak, but Wyatt firmly shook his head. "If Brother Paul says you are fine, then of course, you are free to go where you wish. But, until he sees you and makes that pronouncement, you will do as I say. Now, have I made myself clear?"

Booth swallowed, knowing in that moment that there was likely nothing he could offer up to explain his condition that would not make the conundrum he faced much worse than it already was. He stared at Wyatt's impassable gaze, and then slowly nodded his head in a defeated and glum manner. Wyatt, pleased, released his grip on Booth's jaw. He stepped aside and then gestured towards the opposite direction in which Brennan had gone, making it clear that he'd be the one to follow Booth. Daring to take one final glance at the long corridor behind him, as he silently mouthed his nickname for her, Booth reached up and threaded his fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

"Yes, Brother," he whispered as he turned and reluctantly began to walk down the hall as Brother Wyatt followed him as if Booth was a prisoner and Wyatt the guard standing watch over him. "Very well."

* * *

><p>Some time later, Booth blinked a couple of times, trying to clear away the haze that clouded his vision as he slowly realized he was in a bed.<p>

His body felt heavy, weighed down by some unseen and overwhelming force, as he lay there, clad only in his leggings, a thin sheet of coarse cream-colored linen draped across his stomach. He reached down to move the sheet aside, but the movement was aborted almost instantaneously as his left arm was stilled by a dull, stiff ache that screamed from his muscles as he shifted his hips in bed. Groaning, he turned his head and saw the infirmary monk, Brother Paul, and his young assistant, a lanky novitiate with red hair and pale green eyes whom Booth thought was named Noel—but he couldn't really be certain in that moment—coming toward him. Booth winced as his eyes were suddenly blinded by a flash of late afternoon sunlight gleaming off the polished rim of the bleeding bowl.

"No, no," he murmured as the bald, snaggle-toothed monk extended Booth's right arm and tapped on the bulging vein in the crook of his arm. "No, no—no, I'm fine. Brother...Paul. Please, wait. I don't need this, so don't..."

As soon as the monk's razor-sharp fleam pieced Booth's skin, everything faded quickly to black.

After a time, he once more became somewhat aware of the things that were going on around him, although they were hazy and far away in an unfocused manner that exhausted him. He heard a voice calling for him, but the words themselves sounded distant and liquid to him. He struggled to recognize the voice or to hear the words clearly enough to understand what was being said.

_Where am I? _he murmured, unsure whether he had actually spoken.

"Father," Brother Wyatt said in a quiet but firm voice, holding Booth's hand between his palms. "Look at me, Father." Booth's eyes flickered open again, and he opened his mouth to speak, and though he seemed to move his tongue as if forming speech, no words came out.

Wyatt watched Booth's glassy eyes flutter for a moment as his lips smacked together uselessly, and then saw the young priest's eyes roll back in his head as his eyelids blink shut. Wyatt squeezed Booth's hand, his face blanching as the priest's hand merely twitched in response.

"Brother Paul," Wyatt said as he turned to the infirmary monk. "You must do something for the Father."

The old monk shrugged weakly. "I've already bled him three times," he explained. "Whatever bad humours have invaded his body have taken root deep inside of him. If the bleeding hasn't purged them, then I fear they are too strong, and his constitution too weak. I'm fairly certain whatever affliction he's suffering from isn't the sweating sickness as you'd initially feared, but I'm at a loss of what else could be the cause. So, I'm sorry, Brother Wyatt, but there's nothing more I can do for him."

Wyatt let go of Booth's hand and stood up, walking over to the old monk and glaring down at him, his nostrils flaring in anger. "This bleeding business is utterly worthless balderdash," he spat. "You've done little more than take a relatively healthy man who'd taken slightly ill and made him even weaker and sicker than he was before. Forget about the blasted humours, man, and set about to making the good Father stronger that he can fight this thing that has taken him, whatever it is." Wyatt shook his head in frustration and glanced again at Booth, whose right arm dangled over the edge of his bed.

"I don't know what you expect me to do, Brother Wyatt," the physician monk protested.

"Whatever in God's holy name you have to, Brother Paul," Wyatt growled. "This man is the Archbishop's favorite—his protégé, as it were." He paused, arching an eyebrow as the old monk flinched at the mention of Cardinal Pole's name. "He _must _survive," he said, "as there is still much of God's work for him to complete on earth before he earns his respite. As you said, if he'd been taken with the sweating sickness, he'd be dead already, so it can't be that. But, even still, you must heal whatever is afflicting him as the Lord still has plans for him, and he _must _survive to fulfill his destiny."

"But, Brother—" Brother Paul tried to protest.

"He's been here nigh three days," Wyatt said with a sharp frown marring his normally placid demeanor. "Have you fed him? Or only bled him?"

"He drank a half-measure of watered-down wine yesterday," Paul began to explain with a small shake of his head. "But, no, he's not been conscious long enough to get any solid food down—"

Wyatt's heavy jaw tensed as he pointed his finger in the old monk's face. "You will, as soon as this man wakes up, give him a full ration of mead. If he manages to keep that down, you'll give him another one hour thereafter and begin giving him boiled porridge with honey. Then, as he becomes more conscious, if the food agrees with his stomach, then bread, cheese and eggs, and so on until he begins to regain his native strength."

He sighed as he glanced over at the bleeding bowl and fleam on the table next to Booth's bed.

"And if I so much as see those damned things within ten feet of the good Father again, I'll have you relegated to the stables and shoveling horseshit until you can't raise your arms to wipe your own pathetic brow. Am I making myself clear, Brother Paul?"

"Yes, Brother Wyatt," the old monk said glumly. "I will do as you say. I will try."

"This man will _not _die," the senior friar declared. "Not on my watch. Make him strong again. We need him. God's Holy Church needs him, so do what must be done. Understood?"

The monk nodded in the affirmative to give Wyatt his response, but wisely remained silent. For his part, Wyatt regarded Booth's limp form one last time, pursed his lips into a firm, thin line and then stomped out of the infirmary praying that he wouldn't have to be the one to write the letter to Cardinal Pole informing him of Booth's untimely and unexpected death.

* * *

><p>For a week, Brennan hadn't slept well.<p>

It wasn't for lack of trying on her part. However, each night after Angela brought her her supper tray, and the young woman could only give her a small shake of her head in response to her unasked question, Brennan felt more and more like her only lifeline to the outer world had slipped out of her hands—and she wasn't quite certain how it had happened. Even more importantly, it wasn't like she had many alternatives that she could act upon to alter her situation. It wasn't like she could reveal to the servant girl the actual reasons behind her inquiring after the man that theoretically held the power of life and death over her in the power of his hand. Although she liked Angela well enough, and she _did _want to trust her, Brennan had learned at a very early age from her parents, particularly her father, that trust was a luxury that she usually couldn't afford. And, since she didn't really know Angela very well, she knew it was too big a risk to take. Besides, she'd already unusually reached out and trusted one person in recent times...and that was how, she came to realize, her situation had changed so drastically in such a short period of time. It was all because of _him_. And, that was why Brennan had to keep her inquiries about Father Seeley—Booth, as she'd come to think of him in her own private thoughts—as casual and innocuous as possible.

The first night that he hadn't come to her, Brennan had tried not to make that big a deal out of it. He hadn't slept in some time, and he'd told her himself that he was tired, so she wondered if perhaps the exhaustion, when combined with their pleasurable exertions, had simply been too much for him. She pictured him having fallen asleep in his cell, missing Vespers, dinner, and sleeping through their assignation, only significantly chastising himself when he finally awoke, well rested, but with a growling belly as he stared at the morning light and realized what he'd done. She chuckled at the thought, and she hoped he wouldn't berate himself about it...not too much, at least.

But, then a night and another day passed, and she wasn't even called to the interrogation room. On the second night when she stayed up and waited for him, thinking perhaps he needed some time and distance between them to throw suspicion away from them so they wouldn't be found out, thoughts continued to swirl in her head as she tried to figure out what might've happened to keep him from coming to her as they'd planned. Not once as she let her mind work over the situation in her thoughts did she ever doubt the veracity of his promise that he'd never regret what they'd done.

But, on the second night, when he didn't appear, she began to become afraid. _Something _had happened—she was certain of it, but she just didn't know what it was...and that lack of knowledge made her fear grow much worse than she knew it needed to be. The fear and the uncertainty began to gnaw at her as she pictured all the worst case possible scenarios, ranging from someone having found them out, reported them, and Booth having taken all the blame (and punishment on his shoulders)—because that was the type of thing she knew Booth _would _do—to the fact that maybe, just maybe, he'd been rattled more than she'd thought when he realized the truth of what they'd done.

On the third day, finally, some meager explanation (and the most mild of relief) came when Angela asked her if she'd heard the gossip about Father Seeley. He was ill, Angela had said—dreadfully sick and confined to the infirmary, some of the brothers said—and they feared he was fighting for his very life, although he wasn't so far gone that Last Rites had been given to him, she told Brennan to help pass the time more quickly as she waited for the midwife to finish her breakfast. It turned out that Angela didn't have to wait long since Brennan lost the majority of her appetite after that point, and she quickly thanked the serving girl for bringing her the breakfast but said she wasn't as hungry as she'd originally thought that morning. With a small shrug of her shoulders, Angela nodded, reached for the tray, said her goodbyes, and then disappeared from whence she came, leaving Brennan alone with her thoughts.

From that point on, Brennan felt some modicum of relief since she knew that Booth hadn't broken his word and abandoned her. Something beyond his control had prevented him from coming to her as he'd promised. But, each morning it was the same whenever Angela came, since each morning Brennan couldn't ask more than the obvious: was there any news from the infirmary about Father Seeley? Angela, Brennan supposed, probably believed she just wanted to know about the man's prognosis since his recovery would indicate the resumption of her regular interrogation sessions. In reality, Brennan feared for him for more personal, and more prurient, reasons. Still, she wasn't above letting Angela think her interest was self-serving when she asked why Brennan cared one day.

_It's not just because he said he'd help me_, Brennan found herself thinking one night...somewhat ironically, since it was exactly one week to the day since an unexpected visitor to her cell in the middle of the night had turned her world upside down. _That's not the only reason I've got this tightness in my chest whenever I think about him. It's...it's more than that. As much as I hate to admit it, it's more than that. I know it is. I never expected to find such kindness or gentleness is another human being_—_especially not an Inquisitor of the Holy Church. He...he's not like the rest. And setting aside the fact that we've bedded, I-I...I think I_—

Again, Brennan's thoughts trailed off, as they often did during the day when she wrestled with making sense of what had happened to her because of him. And, as they always did when they reached that one particular point in her thought processes, Brennan's mind turned a sharp curve and refused to look beyond what they'd done and how he'd made her feel to consider the greater significance of both events. And, in between the constant loops of circular logic, a more pernicious thought crept into Brennan's head as she wondered if the timing of his illness had a more divine origin than she'd originally thought.

_If I were to confess to what we did, would I really regret what happened and admit that I didn't intend for it to happen again? _she wondered. _Because, I don't think I honestly could, my aversion to papist rituals aside. I-I...what we did_—_it was enjoyable_, she conceded. _I can freely admit that. It was __very__ enjoyable. And, I freely admit that I want to do it again. I want him. I want him badly_—_so very badly. But, even still, I know_—_because of who he is, and what he is_—_that_ _what we did...what we shared, it's wrong. I know that. I do. What we did contravened his vows. But...still_—_God, just let him be alright. Don't punish him for our sins. I tempted him. It's...what happened, it happened because of me. I wanted it. I wanted him. I still do. I'm the one who's responsible for this temptation. It's not him. It couldn't be him, because he's a good and honorable and noble man. So, maybe, in a way...maybe I did bewitch him after all. But, he's the innocent in this. Don't...please don't make him pay for something that's my fault._

Sitting up in bed, Brennan realized she'd never get to sleep if she was once again thinking about Booth and what they'd done all night. Sighing, she glanced at the window, and seeing how dark it was, knew there to be many hours of night left even as tell-tale droplets of water heralded the arrival of the storm that Angela told her all expected to brew this night given the overcast skies of the previous evenings that came and went with no falling of rain. A low roll of thunder told her she'd get no sleep that night anyway if the storm promised to be as bad as Angela said everyone expected.

Brennan made a face at the thought. For some reason, she'd always hated thunderstorms. They made her uneasy, and slightly anxious in knowing that she'd be at the mercy of the howling winds, uncontrollable thunder, and unpredictable torrents of rain that Mother Nature conjured. Yes, she was at their mercy but for the meagre shelter offered by the four walls and roof of the wooden building in which she'd now been a prisoner for seven weeks.

_I suppose it doesn't help that Mother died during a summer storm like this_, Brennan thought morosely, her maudlin thoughts a clear reflection of her grim mindset. _Is that going to happen again, I wonder? Is it happening right now? Could he be drawing his last breath? Could he be leaving me, just like Mother did, even though they both promised they never would? Or, maybe, has it already happened, and I just don't know it yet? Oh, God, help me_—

A knot formed in her throat as realized there were tears falling down her cheeks that had caused her vision to blur.

_Don't take him away_, she suddenly found herself praying silently. _Please, God...don't do this. Let him be alright. Don't...just...please...please save him. Please save him. Don't let him go. Don't let him leave me. Just...all I need to do is be able to see him one last time. That's all. Just_—_just let me see him one last time. That's all I ask. Just_—_please._

Brennan's impromptu prayer eventually segued into a series of more formal prayers that she began to silently mouth as the storm grew worse. Eventually, at some point, she realized she must've dozed off in the course of her nightly conversation with God. Blinking away the grogginess that coated her eyes, she tried to make sense of how she'd fallen asleep in such an uncomfortable position, praying, as a storm raged outside. A crack of lightning illuminated the aged panes of the glass in her window, and Brennan realized that it must've been the storm that jolted her awake. She gingerly tried to stretch out her stiff back and winced as her neck protested from the odd angle it had been forced to stay in for so long as she'd dozed.

However, as she tried to figure out how to stretch her muscles so that she might ease the pain she felt in her neck and shoulders, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight on end as some type of faint noise caught her attention. Her eyes darted around the room as she tried to determine what had made the sound. After a minute, all was quiet, but then another loud crash from outside made her jump in bed. Another loud boom of thunder startled her slightly, as it had followed so closely on the heels of the first. Realizing that the noise was probably just caused by the weather, Brennan chided herself for letting a mere thunderstorm catch her off-guard. Shaking her head, she'd resigned herself to the task of once more going about the order of trying to fo begin stretching her muscles, when the first noise that had caught her attention returned. This time, it was louder, and before Brennan had realized what was happening, the wooden door to her cell slowly creaked open and a small beam of dancing illumination pierced the blackness of her solemn abode.

Quickly, a lone cloaked figure silently crept into the cell, shut the door, and secured it behind him. Brennan's eyes widened as she took in the sight before her.

_Am I still asleep? _she silently mused, blinking several times as she wondered if she'd only dreamed that the summer storm had awakened her. Trying to ascertain if the vision before her was real or not, the question echoed in her mind, _Am I...that is, am I-I...am I dreaming about him now? _

As she continued to stare at the hooded figure, Brennan couldn't help but wonder if what she was seeing now was indeed what she'd originally thought it to be—just a dream. But, when the figure walked slowly to the table, and meticulously set the candle he carried down in exactly the same spot as he had a week before, Brennan knew her subconscious was not so perfect as to get _that _particular detail right as she slept. Still, fear gripped her as she watched with baited breath as her visitor moved to push back the hood of his robe.

After a moment, a familiar dark-headed face emerged, and Brennan felt her breath catch in her chest.

"Bren?" came the quiet whisper. "It's me. Ummm...are you...Bren, are you awake?"

As soon as she'd heard his voice, Brennan decided she didn't care if she was dreaming or not. Like a shot, she was out of the bed and on her feet. She hurtled towards his form, her speed catching him slightly off guard as she threw herself at him. By the time her arms were wrapped around him, her grip was so tight, it almost made breathing difficult.

Coughing lightly, he said quietly, "Bren—air. I, uhhh, air...I...need...to...breathe."

As some part of her brain processed his words, her iron-like grip loosened slightly so that he could take a breath. However, her hands refused to let go of him as she clung to him like some type of life raft. Somewhat surprised—although, pleasantly so—by her intense display of emotion towards him, Booth felt a warmth blossom in his chest as he wrapped his arms around her and gave her a reassuring hug.

Moving his lips to her ear, he chuckled lightly, "I'm guessing someone missed me, huh?"

Her grip on his torso tightened as she said softly, "Are you really here? Is it...is it really you?"

The pain Booth heard in her voice caused him to pause. Suddenly, he used his superior strength to move Brennan just enough so that her head was no longer pressed into his chest as it had been, but was instead looking up at him so that he could see her eyes. Moving one of his hands, he lightly cupped her jaw and tilted her head up to meet his questioning gaze.

"Hey," he asked. "What is it?"

She stared at him for a long moment, her pale eyes ablaze with intense emotion, and then she slowly shook her head. "I-I...I didn't...no one told me anything," Brennan finally managed to ramble. "All Angela knew was that the night after you left after we'd...well, you know—after the last time I saw you in the interrogation room...and, errr...when we were together? Well, she said that you'd been removed from your normal room and your normal duties were postponed because you had taken ill. She said you'd been taken to the infirmary because of some sickness, but didn't know anything else besides that...and I didn't even know that part until three days after I'd last seen you."

"I was," he said simply. "I convinced the monk in charge of the infirmary that I was well enough to return to my quarters after Vespers today. I couldn't come before now without arousing suspicion, though." He paused, and his heart melted a bit when he saw the concern she obviously felt for him shining out of her eyes, but still, for some reason he needed to know for certain. "Were you worried about me?"

Brennan flushed a bit at the question and then looked away as she nodded. "Yes," she whispered. "I didn't know...that is—I didn't know what had happened to you."

"Initially, Brother Wyatt believed it might be the sweating sickness," he told her lightly. He felt her body tense at the words as he further explained, "You see, he saw me leaving the interrogation room after the guards had already left to escort you back to your cell. He saw me sweating, and with my face flushed, and my heart was racing...because...well, not to put too fine a point on it, but because of what we'd been doing, but he thought I'd finally taken ill. He'd been concerned about me over the few days before it because he'd noticed my lack of appetite and the dark circles under my eyes, and he knew I wasn't sleeping. So, when he suggested that I might be coming down with the sweating sickness, they believed quarantine in the infirmary was the safest choice, just in case you see, to take precautions lest there be an outbreak if I was indeed sick with it. I knew I wasn't, but since I couldn't really tell him why I was like that in the first place without giving us away, I didn't have a choice in what was happening to me. There wasn't anything I could say to get him to believe that I just needed to sleep. Believe me—I tried, but Brother Wyatt...well, once he sets his mind to something, he can be one of the most stubborn individuals whom I've ever encountered. So, before I knew it, he was shoving me off to the infirmary, and they were getting ready to bleed me." He stopped and shook his head as he sighed, "I think the bleeding did more harm than good. I slept for the first three days, and by the time I realized you'd be wondering about me, I didn't know how to get word to you in a way that wouldn't attract undue notice."

"You...you were worried about what I thought?" Brennan asked slowly as she finished listening to his explanation.

Booth nodded. "Of course," he said simply. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I thought..." Brennan began, her voice wavering a bit as she spoke. "I thought, given the timing of what had happened, that maybe I'd done something to merit retribution—to punish me for my sins, perhaps—and...maybe this was God's way of punishing you for what I'd done...for what I'd made you do."

Another flush of warmth at her words caused Booth's heart to feel even larger than it had felt just a moment earlier—and when he'd realized that she'd been concerned about him, that had made his heart feel pretty enormous. She'd looked away from him in the course of his explanation, and so Booth had to move his hand to reclaim his earlier grasp of her face. Lifting a hand to cup her jaw, he tilted her head until she reluctantly met his gaze once more.

"Bren?" he asked in a quiet voice.

She stared at him for a moment, and then sighed softly, "Yes?"

He held her gaze firmly with his for a long moment to emphasize what he was about to say. Then, taking another breath, he nodded at her. "This is very important, so...please. Pay attention to me, alright?"

He waited for Brennan to nod her head to confirm that she understood what he was saying. After another minute, he told her in a low and soothing, but very firm voice, "First, you didn't make me do anything," he said. "What I did...what we did...it was a choice. It was a choice I made, a choice you made, a choice we made together. And, it's a choice that I know I don't regret...and one that I hope you don't regret."

"I don't—" she interrupted him.

Flashing her a toothy grin, he nodded, "Good. Because, I want you to know that given the same choice, I'd do everything _exactly _the same way all over again. Do you understand?"

He felt some of the tension that had been in her body dissipate as soon as the words let his mouth. A spark of hope, and for the first time since he'd known her, if Booth didn't know better, what he'd say was vulnerability, shone in her eyes as she nodded her head again.

"Really?" she asked.

Nodding slowly, he said, "Really." He let the pad of his thumb caress her cheek for another minute before he asked quietly, "Did you mean it, though? Because...it's alright if you need to tell me that you've changed your mind. I...I-I...it's alright. I just need to know—_you_ don't regret it...do you?"

Brennan's answer came as she once more moved so quickly that Booth was taken aback slightly as she reached up, knocking his hand away from her cheek in the process, and slammed her lips against his. It was all the response Booth needed to banish any doubts he'd felt about what he feared she'd come to think of him and what they'd done in the time they'd been apart. It was a significant amount of reassurance that significantly bolstered his confidence...and then some.

As he felt her tongue twirl inside his mouth, for a moment, he forgot where he was and what he was doing. In that moment, all he could think about was how warm and pliant Brennan felt in his arms, how good she smelled as he deeply inhaled her scent, and how sweet she tasted as she pulled his tongue deeper and deeper into her mouth. At some point, when the need for oxygen made him reluctantly pull away, he smiled as he heard Brennan make a kittenish sound that seemed to simultaneously convey both her deep satisfaction at his kiss and her significant displeasure at his action of moving away from her—whether it was for pure basic necessity's sake or not. After Booth had separated them just enough so that he could suck some much-needed air into his deprived lungs, and hoped she'd take the chance to breathe as well—since he knew as talented as she was that even Brennan couldn't hold her breath for that long—he felt her press her body into his as if she were both reminding of what he was already missing and punishing him with that reminder for daring to pull away.

"Come on now," he whispered into her ear, moving his mouth so that it rested no more than an inch or two away from her earlobe. "Don't be like that."

"Don't be like what?' Brennan finally managed to gasp. "I'm just trying to make a point here."

"And what point would that be?" Booth asked playfully. "Because I have to tell you, Bren, I can't tell if that was a kiss of happiness, a kiss of relief, a kiss of lust, or a kiss of temptation—all designed to drive me mad, no doubt, whichever one it is, hmmm?"

"Why does it have to be just one? Can't it be all of them?" Brennan asked, her voice breathy as she blinked at him in a sultry way that let him know what she wanted from him in that moment—and, more importantly, letting him know that she planned not to let him leave her until she'd gotten it. "Because, in reality, the point I was actually trying to make is that, for more than one reason, I'm very glad to see you," she finally said as she punctuated her point with a twist of her hips as she grinded her pelvis against him. She felt his body tense and as his eyes dropped to see what she was doing, and she smiled as she added, "So very, very glad."

"You know," Booth said as he pressed his hip against her body in response to what he knew was an invitation to resume what they'd begun a week earlier. "I honestly didn't come here tonight expecting that you'd let me bed you again. I didn't dare hope. I'm not lying when I say I only came here to tell you that I was alright and to apologize for not seeing you for so long after...what happened between us."

"So," Brennan said as she twisted slightly as she thrust her pelvis towards him again and caused him to moan softly. "Does that mean that you _don't _want a chance to bed me again? Especially considering the fact that we...errr, have a bed this time?

"I want you," he said quietly, his voice already dropping half an octave in a wonderfully rough way that made Brennan want to shiver with each word that he spoke. "I've spent every single day and night of this past week going out of my mind with want of you." He stopped and moved his mouth so that it was near her earlobe. He nipped it slightly before he whispered, "If I thought it was bad before I knew the feel and taste of you, I didn't know what hell could be to have had you once and realize with each passing day how long it had been since I last touched you. _That _was true madness."

Brennan shivered again at his sensuous words. Smiling as he moved his mouth to her jaw, and began to trace a light line of kisses towards her mouth, she sought out his lips again. He eagerly welcomed her attentions as he opened his mouth and bypassed the worship of her soft lips with his. Instead, he pushed his wet tongue inside her mouth, greedy and demanding as it entered her soft sweet lushness. He used the tip of his tongue to trace the edge of hers in a semicircle, their combined saliva speeding his slick movements on as he plunged into her wetness again and again. The sweetness of her breath tickled the small hairs in his nostrils, causing him to twitch his nose in spite of himself. The movement obviously caused Brennan some amusement as she smiled against him and a throaty chuckle rumbled at the back of her throat once again. Slowly, Booth pulled back, and Brennan looked up at him with her eyes ablaze with longing and want.

Taking his hand, Brennan threaded her fingers through his hand and nodded at her sleeping space. "Come to bed," she murmured both inviting and tempting him in the same breath. She tugged on his hand as she gently led the way, Booth offered no significant resistance to her overtures. Still, she chuckled as she tried to encourage him to take the lead. "Take me to bed," she coaxed him again.

Booth didn't need to be told twice as he followed close on her heels.

Brennan fell back onto the bed and pushed herself towards the center as she waited for him. She sat watching as Booth quickly pulled his outer cloak and his thin woolen white robe over his head. Kicking off his sandals, and hastily pulling down his woolen leggings, once free of his clothes, he stalked towards her, charming and assured in his movements. The faint illumination of the single candle he had brought cast a warm light over his body. In the week since she'd last seen him, she could already see a slight change in his body.

"You've lost weight," she said quietly as she tilted her head at him.

Booth stopped and glanced down at his naked body. After a moment, he shrugged his shoulder slightly and then quirked an eyebrow at her as he asked, "How can you tell?"

"Your body," she pointed at his chest with her index finger. "It's a bit more lean in the musculature of your torso than it was before. Granted, I didn't have as much time to study your body as you did mine, but I've been told I have a very keen eye for details."

"And, I've been told," Booth said, as he gave her a sly grin when he stepped closer to the bed. "That I have an _excellent _memory. I think, maybe, I should see if you look just as I remember in case I need to study you some more to correct any imperfections in my memory, hmmm?" He took another step and then knelt on the edge of the bed as he awaited her response.

Slowly, Brennan gathered a fistful of fabric in each hand as she pulled at the hem of her white linen shift that she'd taken to wearing while she slept in during the term of her imprisonment. Pulling the garment up and over her head, she silently let the bunch of fabric fall to the floor next to the bed. Extending her hand, she then used her index finger to beckon him.

"Let's see, I think, how good a memory you've really got," Brennan challenged him with an evil smile. "I believe you said as a student, you claimed to have a very steep...what was it you called it? A 'steep learning curve'?"

Booth nodded with a toothy grin as he shifted closer towards the center of the bed and closer towards her as he moved on his knees. "Yes. I've always been an _excellent _student," he told her.

"Mmmm," she said thoughtfully. "Then, I suppose the next question is...what does the student remember from his last lesson?"

As he moved so that he was closer and closer to her, Brennan let her legs fall open a bit so that he could move between them and have easy access to her most sensitive parts. He rested a hand on each of her knees, a small look of hesitation crossing his face as he stared at her. A serious look then crossed his face as he frowned slightly and nodded.

"I remember that...I was selfish the first time," he said softly. "I remember that I had no thought beyond burying myself inside you so that things went so quickly that you achieved no release."

"But," she said, lifting her pale eyes to meet his. "Be fair to yourself, Booth. It was your first time. It only stands to reason that you were slightly...preoccupied with your own release. And, besides, you more than made up for it with the second time."

"Even still," Booth said as he began to use his palms to rub small circles over her flexed kneecaps. "That's bothered me all week because I was more than just preoccupied. You're being kind since we both know I was damn near obsessed with getting inside you as quickly as possible with no thought to anything else that was going on, so I'd still like to make certain that it doesn't happen again." He paused and then said with a tilt of his head, "I seem to recall that you said, unlike men, women can spend more than once if their partners are...what was it? Patient and persistent?"

A curious look came into Brennan's eyes as she slowly nodded her head. "Yes, they can."

"Well," he said as he let each of his palms travel from her kneecaps and upwards to the soft skin of her inner thighs. "I'd like to think that I'm _very _patient...and I know I'm _very _persistent...so tell me—if I did to you with my fingers what I did before, would that make you spend?"

Brennan felt a gush of wetness between her legs as her eyes riveted on his hands as they moved to touch her thighs in long and languid strokes. Her mouth, too, she suddenly found dry as she croaked softly, "Yes."

"Really?" he asked her.

"Yes," she repeated, as his hands went tantalizing closer and closer to her pelvis with each touch. "But—"

Booth slowed his motions as he tilted his head and asked, "But what?"

"But," she clarified, her voice almost hesitating to share with him the rather libertine knowledge that she'd gained not from firsthand experience, but from talking to other women in her trade as a midwife. "There are...other ways...other things you can do besides...well, besides fingering me."

"Hmmm," Booth responded, as he stared at her beautifully flushed body and contemplated her words.

Leaning forward, he let his hands fall away from her thighs. Placing a hand on either side of her hips, he lightly covered her body with his as he sought out her mouth. Brennan groaned when he kissed her, twisting a bit beneath him as one of his hands left her hips and began to knead the creamy white skin of her ass.

When they at last pulled apart, he gave her a toothy grin of encouragement as he commanded her, "Tell me."

Swallowing heavily, Brennan nodded as she gasped for breath. "Three ways," she managed to explain. "There are...three ways...that you can bring me to release."

"One is with my fingers," he said, playfully flexing them as he squeezed her ass for emphasis. "Right?"

"_Yeeeesss_," she moaned, the single word coming out unintentionally like a hiss of a snake rather than the verbalization of a rational human female.

"Two is with..." he prompted her enthusiastically.

"Your manhood," she moaned as she felt his erection pressing into her thigh. She couldn't help herself as she twisted her head away from his face, revealing a creamy expanse of neck that Booth immediately longed to kiss.

"And, three?" he questioned her, giving into his impulse, as he placed a light kiss at the base of her exposed neck.

"Three," she whispered, her eyes clenched shut as she felt his hands and lips skate across her skin. "Ohhh, ummm—"

"Yes?" he chuckled.

"Uhh...three...is with...your...ohhh," she moaned softly. "With your mouth."

As soon as the words had fallen from her lips, Booth considered what she'd said, admittedly a bit surprised furrowing his brow as the image she painted—the idea of placing his mouth on the part of her body that had made him nearly explode when he'd come within just a few inches of it in his earlier exploration of her most intimate places and felt his eyes roll back into his head at the mere delicious smell of her. He felt his throat grow dry as he realized that he might actually get to not only smell her, but taste her, too. He was lost in thought for a moment, pausing long enough to get Brennan's attention. She felt the change in his demeanor, and her eyes snapped open.

Afraid she'd shocked him, she did a quick about-face as she quickly sputtered, "You...don't—" she struggled to explain. "That is, you don't have to do that. I wasn't telling you that because I thought you'd want to do that to me. I was just saying—that's, errr...that's...well, I-I...it's just that...that's how it can be done. I wasn't saying it because I was asking you to do that to me. I just wanted to give you a complete answer, and—"

"My mouth," he began, testing each word as he spoke, as he cut her off with a gentle smile. "Would...you like that? If I were to touch you...there...with my mouth?"

Brennan felt her pulse increase as she heard a roaring in her ears get louder as she realized that from his response, Booth wasn't as shocked or as adverse to the idea she'd initially thought. Exhaling a deep breath of relief, slowly, she nodded her head as she didn't dare to even breathe a word out loud, lest she somehow jinx her luck. And, in that moment, she very, very much hoped that she'd be lucky enough to have him remain open-minded enough to actually do to her what it seemed he was considering doing to her—and the mere thought of it made her so giddy she wondered if she might pass out from just the pleasure of the thought before he'd even had a chance to touch her.

Almost as if he'd heard her inner thoughts somehow, Booth smiled at her. "I would touch you," he began, pulling back slowly from her, but trailing his fingers down her torso and towards her navel. As he made his way towards her pubic region. "I would touch you here...with my mouth—" He stopped and toyed with a few of the coarse curls that greeted him at the apex of her mons. "With my mouth...and my tongue?"

Brennan could only moan a bit in response as she nodded her head furiously.

"So, I can bring you...release this way?" he asked, even though he seemed to already know the answer as he saw her squirm in excitement and with want at the mere thought of it. Even still, he waited with baited breath for her response.

She again nodded.

"Hmmmm," Booth said thoughtfully, as he saw her staring at him without even blinking once. Chuckling, he nodded at her. "I think I can do that...that is, if you want me to..."

"Oh, God, yes," she moaned. "Yes. Please. Do. That is...I do...want that...want you, to do that...more than anything. If you do? That is...my answer is yes. I want you...I want that—please?"

He nodded once and then smiled at her as he moved to dip his head between her legs. Before he plowed forward, he lifted his playful glance to meet hers, his brown eyes shining as he looked at her with excited exuberance clearly visible in his gaze. "Are you ready? Are you comfortable?" he asked. "You need to tell me because I would have you enjoy this...that is, if I can do what I need to do to help you spend. I want this to be good for you, so just tell me—"

Brennan shifted a bit and leaned back into her pillow. Slowly, she nodded with a breathiness to her voice that came to him as another shot of heated encouragement. "Ohhh..._yeeeessss_."

"Good," Booth murmured with a sexy and almost cocky leer before his head finally bobbed down between her thighs. "So good."

He began his tentative efforts by resuming his kisses of the inside of her thigh. She could feel the moist in and out rhythm of his breath on her skin, and as he exhaled each short puff, the warmth penetrated her like she desperately hoped some other part of his anatomy would soon do to her in relatively short order. Brennan wasn't disappointed when she felt his warm hands move to her slit. This time, however, instead of using his fingers to touch her as she'd shown him the week before, he slowly peeled her apart with his thumbs as if she were a very ripe nectarine. She groaned as he exposed her soft and wet flesh to the air, but the sensation lasted only a minute before she felt the air pushed away as he lowered his head and moved his lips up and down her drenched core in a straight line. He wasn't actually touching her with his tongue yet, and the sensation not only worked to inflame her desire, but nearly drove her out of her mind.

"Tongue," she groaned, as she twisted against him slightly. "Oh, please—don't tease me. You're a damn lawyer, so I know you've got to be good with that tongue of yours, so...please, Booth. _Use it_."

Smiling against her, a small chuckle made her squirm even more as he slowly, ever so slowly let the tip of his tongue dart out and skim the surface of her wet entrance.

At first, he was a bit leery about what he was doing. He desperately wanted to please Brennan, that much he knew. But, he'd never tasted another person before, and wasn't quite certain what to expect. Her scent was unlike anything he'd ever smelled before, the mere sensation of her scent burned into his memory from seven days earlier when he'd first taken a deep breath of iit. As he inhaled her scent again, from that moment on, Booth knew he'd never be able to think of her ever again in his mind's eye without recalling _this _particular scent. Emboldened by her writhing, and the small titillating feeling that he knew that _he _was the one causing it, he let his tongue dip slightly deeper, tracing the ring of her entrance. The taste of her was an unexpected and delightful surprise. Later, when he tried to think about how to describe it, he would find himself at a loss for words. The tangy sweetness was so unique that he couldn't come up with any other adjective to describe it but...well, it was just _her_. The moment he tasted her on the tip of his tongue, he felt quite certain he would never again savor anything as incredible as her in his entire life no matter how long he shuffled in the mortal coil of this earth.

"Mmmmm," he murmured against her warm skin as he withdrew his tongue slightly and whispered against her softness. "Sweet...so sweet."

Brennan, for her part, moaned as he continued to touch her. She arched her back as she groaned his name, her voice fading to almost a whisper before she cried out. "Ohhhh...my...mmmmm..._Booo-tthh_."

Lifting his head, he panicked when he heard her call out his name, and she whimpered at the loss of contact.

"Are you alright?" he asked, genuinely concerned as he lifted his head from between her legs to look at her reclining form.

She nodded quickly, her head jerking as she whispered, "Yes. God, yes. Just—_please..._keep doing that."

"What?" he said as he gave her a lopsided grin, even though he knew _exactly _what she was talking about.

"Touch me," she pleaded. "Mmmmm...please. _Please_. Touch me...taste me."

"Mmmmm," he said as he moved his head again and ducked back between her legs to what he was rapidly beginning to think was one of his favorite places to be in the entire world. This second time he moved, Booth again used his tongue to trace the rim of her wet hole, slick with silky creaminess, and growing more and more so, he judged, with each passing moment.

Brennan, her impatience growing, shifted in the bed again so that she was no longer laying flat. Lifting herself up on her forearms, her body shook as she tried to get Booth's attention.

"Inside me," she moaned as he continued to lick her moving up and down her slit in abject adoration. "Oh, God—" she whispered. "Don't...I need—you can do more than that..."

"How?" he breathed against her, causing Brennan to shudder lightly again.

"Penetrate me," she begged, her voice hoarse as she pleaded with him. "With your tongue...inside. Bury it... inside me...like you did before with your fingers...and your manhood."

Only too happy to comply with her spirited suggestion, Booth let his tongue pass out further and began to plunge in and out of her wet folds. With each pass, he skimmed deeper, and the sound of her moans began to grow louder. Fortunately, as a storm of one kind raged in her cell, the crack of lightning and the booms of thunder outside drowned out her moans of ecstasy that heralded the storm that was cresting inside the cell between the pair of lovers. Booth continued to lap up as much of each bit of sweetness as he could when her hips bucked and the sounds she made continued to become more and more unintelligible.

A moment of inspiration suddenly occurred to Booth. Remembering the previous week how it had been when he paid close attention to the firm nub of flesh near the tip of her entrance, he moved his mouth higher and began to suck on the bundle of nerves.

"Oooooohhh," Brennan moaned. "Ooooooh, ahhh, ahhh, ahhhhh—"

He smiled as he continued to alternate between sucking her clitoris and using his tongue to draw circles around it, as she'd taught him how she liked to be touched the previous week. As he continued to taste her, Brennan felt her pulsing orgasm continue to crash closer and closer towards the shoal of her eventual fulfillment.

"Oh, God, _Booootthhh_," she groaned. "Oh, God—I'm...I'm close. I think I'm, ohhhh...damn it. _Booothhhh_—"

As she bucked her hips once into his mouth, she moaned one final time as the tell-tale flutters of her inner walls tightened. Booth gave her clit one last swipe before she came, and she grunted his name again and punctuated it with another arching of her back. A wave of pleasure at what he'd accomplished sent his own need for some type of release clearly into the forefront of his mind. Lapping up the taste of her, it was as if he couldn't get enough of her. She fell back on the bed replete, and her eyes were shut and the warm, a rosy pink glow making her skin helping her to seem even more beautiful to him in that minute than he'd ever seen her before.

Lifting his head, he had a relatively pleased, if somewhat stupid, grin on his face as he placed a delicate kiss on the flat of her abdomen.

"You spent?" he asked, even though he knew the answer to his question.

Brennan could only murmur a soft, but unintelligible sigh of affirmation.

"Good," he said as he began to trace a line of light kisses from her navel towards her breasts. "That's good."

"Damn straight, it's good," Brennan finally managed to speak, cracking open one eye playfully as she talked to him. "It was very, _very _good." She smacked her lips once in appreciation, and then took her hands and reached for him. Pulling him up to meet her mouth, she whispered, "Kiss me."

Booth didn't have so much as a chance to either speak his agreement or voice his disagreement before her lips were on his, greedy and demanding entrance.

"Kiss me," she murmured into his mouth. He opened wider, and a small part of his brain marveled at the fact that she wanted to kiss him even though his mouth had just been on a very different part of her body. His chin was damp with the silky fluids of her desire, but as her mouth grasped at his, she was unfazed and her tongue sought his in a desperate, frenzied kiss. "Kiss me," she breathed softly.

The persistent demands of her tongue quickly pushed any of the fleeting thoughts she'd had of expanding his education about sexual positions temporarily out of her head. Letting her hand snake between them, she sought out his stiff cock. Her slim fingers wrapped around him, and she pumped him a couple of times just to make certain he was ready for her.

"Inside me," she groaned as he moaned into the crook of her shoulder. "Now...you need to be inside me, _right now_."

"Yes," he muttered in obvious agreement. "_Yesssss_," he hissed in response. "Oh...yes."

"Stay with me," she whispered in encouragement as she tried to help him line up the swollen tip of his cock to press against her dripping wet entrance. "Don't...that is, try not to rush it."

"I'll...try," he grunted as he felt her hand fall away. Pushing himself up so that he used his forearms to brace his body so it didn't crush hers uncomfortably, Booth almost felt himself start to spend as soon as the felt the tip of his shaft being sucked into the depth of her warm, moist folds. "Oh, God—Bren..."

"Stay...with...me," she whispered again, almost as if she could sense that he was close to breaking before either one of them were ready for him to do so.

Furiously, Booth bit down on the inside of his lip as he tried to still the overwhelming urge he felt to let himself go. He vaguely felt Brennan lift her right leg up and wrap it around the back of his thigh as he haltingly pressed into her. They both let out low cries as he slowly buried himself in her until he was seated to the hilt.

After a minute—during which Bren adjusted to the full feeling of having him rooted so deeply inside her and Booth attempted to gain enough focus so that he didn't come at that exact moment—she tilted her head so that she could whisper in his ear, "Move, now. You're inside me...and it feels...wonderful. Move. Please, Booth. Please. Move."

"I-I...I..." the words trailed off, Booth struggling with words as he realized that, if he diverted his attention from keeping focused on not coming that he might lose the tenuous thread of self-control he had. "If I move...I'll spend."

"It's alright," she said as she wrapped her arms around his broad torso and lightly raked her nails across the muscular plane of his back. "It's fine. Do it. I want you...I want you to do it. Do me, err—I...don't wait. It's fine. Please. Do it—"

"Bren—" he groaned as he rolled his hips a bit, but hadn't moved more than a couple of inches before he rammed home again. "I can't—"

"It's alright," she crooned again. "I'm close...so close. So are you. Just...do it."

Biting his lip, he felt a bead of sweat dribble off his forehead, across his muscular jaw, and down the curve of his corded neck. "Oh, God—ohhhhh, _Bren_."

Taking her at her word, he started to move. It took only six or seven more strokes before his self-control unraveled completely as he emptied himself into her with a cry. She wasn't far behind as she needed to grind her hips against him only a couple of more times before she too called out his name and felt the waves of a second orgasm carry her into the land of sexual repletion and languid satiation.

Once he'd collapsed on top of her, the world still was visible through a haze of pinpricks of light that almost made it seem as if stars had temporarily clouded his vision. His heart pounded in his ears, and slowly he suddenly became aware of the world around him once more. The first thing he realized was how sweaty and hot he was. The second thing he realized was that he didn't know how Brennan was supporting his crushing weight. Carefully, and with a mewl of annoyance on her part, he reluctantly slipped out of her warm folds and rolled away onto his back. She followed like a magnet, for once grateful that her bed wasn't so large that he could get that far away from her. Reaching for her, he pulled her onto his chest and tilted his head so that he could place a light kiss on her forehead, somewhat pleased that her hair was as damp and wispy as his own from their joint exertions.

Eventually, taking a deep breath, he said quietly, "I don't think I could possibly imagine a time when or set of circumstances under which I would ever grow tired of being with you like this." He paused and then a smile cracked the edge of his lips as he said, "Never."

"Mmmm," Brennan arched against him, melding herself as much as she could against his body. "You're not so bad yourself."

He held her for a few more moments in contented silence before a large crack of lightning illuminated the thunderstorm outside her window. He felt Brennan start next to him and asked gently, "What is it?"

She was quiet for a moment before she said, "The storm—I-I just...well, 've never really liked them—the storms, that is."

"Why?" he asked, his curiosity truly piqued at her statement. "It's just a simple weather phenomenon, Bren—wind and water making its way back to replenish the earth and and make the land plentiful again."

"I know that," she said after another moment of soft silence that was shared between them. He sensed her hesitation and knew she was holding something back even as she struggled to explain. "It's just that—"

Her voice trailed off, and Booth knew the softness in her voice spoke volumes so he knew to tread carefully.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice calm but gentle in its firmness. "It's alright. You know you can tell me anything, right, Bren?"

She stared at him for a minute and then slowly nodded.

"So, please," he pleaded with her. "Tell me."

She looked away for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Then, taking a slow breath, she began to speak. "My mother—" she said softly. "My mother...she...that is..." Brennan's voice trailed off as she took another breath and finally told him what she'd hinted at before, but never really spoken of to anyone save her father and that had been many years ago. "She died during a storm very much like this...late at night, during the heat of the summer, when there was no one to hear her screams of agony because the thunder and lightning were louder than she was." She paused and then added softly, "I've never spoken of this to anyone save my father right after my mother died, as I believed, as her husband, he had a right to know what happened in that room when we lost her, but I...for some reason, I feel like it's alright to tell you. It's...I'm not sure why, but I do."

Booth was quiet for a minute before he moved his arms so that he cradled her against his chest. _She trusts me, _he told himself. _Wow. I'm sure how or why, but she trusts me enough to tell me something she's never shared with anyone outside of her family. _He felt his heart flutter at the thought. _This trust I have in her, _he mused, _is matched by the trust she's shown me. The trust that she's shown me just now, it means...we're not alone. We're the same. Thank God._ Though the sad, painful story she had revealed was not something that itself made him happy, he took pleasure in knowing that she considered him a confidant. _God, I want you. Just you. Only you. _He had a goofy smile on his face as he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. She smiled in return, and the pair were content to enjoy the unexpected moment of peace that Brennan's impromptu confession had brought for them.

After a few moments of holding her, Booth finally chanced to speak as he said quietly, "Your family means a tremendous amount to you, don't they?"

Lifting her head off of his chest, she slowly nodded her head. "My father...my brother...his wife and their children...they're everything to me. I'll do whatever I have to do to protect them."

"Which is why you've let yourself stay here for as long as you have," he said, finally giving voice to a thought that had been rattling around in his brain for some time. "Isn't it?"

"Yes," she agreed, without any pause or hesitation whatsoever in her voice. "But, you know that already."

"I do," Booth nodded, feeling that he needed to be as forthright with her as she'd been with him. "But...well, it's hard to explain, but knowing the facts of something and then knowing the reasons that explain the facts, well—it's just different." He stopped for a moment and then said, "You know, Bren—I wasn't lying when I said I would help you. I meant it. You do know that, don't you?"

Brennan's hands rested along the side of his chest that she wasn't covering with her own body. Her fingers were splayed across one of his pectoralis muscles, playing with the faint peach fuzz hair that covered his upper chest. She was quiet for a moment, saying nothing as she toyed with his skin, causing Booth to frown a bit at her lack of response.

"Bren?" he tried again. "You...you do believe me when I say that, don't you?"

She was quiet for another moment before she said softly, "Yes. I-I just...I have a sudden feeling that you're about to tell me something I'm not going to like."

A bit surprised that she'd read him so well, Booth let out his own slow breath before he spoke again. "You know, while I was in the infirmary, there wasn't much to do but think. So, when I wasn't praying or sleeping, I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to keep my word to you—"

Lifting her head off of his chest at her words, Brennan suddenly interrupted Booth as she said, "I won't do it, Booth."

"Do what?" he asked, shifting in the bed slightly as he look at her in confusion.

"I won't give up my father to the Inquisition just because that old shrivelled bat of a queen thinks that he has some magic evidence that she can use to disinherit the Princess Elizabeth. I understand she's bitter over what happened to her and her mother because of King Henry's second marriage, but anyone who takes a single glance at Princess Elizabeth can tell that he fathered her. It's as plain as day." She frowned and shook her head. "No matter how much the queen thinks my father has evidence of some conspiracy that put a changeling into the royal nursery the September day at Greenwich when Princess Elizabeth was born, it's not true," Brennan said, the words coming out in a tumble. Stopping to take a breath, she sighed, "I won't lie and not admit that the queen has had a hard life. I knew that even before I attended on her when she thought she was pregnant. She's suffered through more grief and misery, and come out the stronger for it, than much better women than her have had to endure. But, even still—"

Cocking his head in confusion, Booth arched an eyebrow and asked, "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about," Brennan replied.

"No," Booth said with a shake of his head. "I don't."

Waving her hand dismissively, Brennan explained, "Surely you remember when we spoke of it. I was called on to attend the Queen during what was supposed to be her first confinement. I knew then that there was no child inside her, and told them as much when I conferred with the royal physicians. Apparently, none of them liked what I had to say, so it struck me as no surprise that I ended up arrested after rumors began to circulate that this latest pregnancy was as much of a ghost as the last one had been. But, even still, I know as well as anyone else, that it was merely happy coincidence for her that she could have me arrested at the same time she needed to bring pressure to bear on my father in hopes of compelling him to produce whatever ridiculous evidence she thinks my father's been hoarding that might be used to harm the Princess Elizabeth and threaten her place in the succession for over twenty-five years." Her nostrils flared at the thought as her short rant ended. She then shook her head, her jaw tight, as she told him, "I won't give her the satisfaction, I tell you, and I wouldn't even if he weren't my father. Because it's just ludicrous, Booth—absolutely ridiculous."

"Bren," Booth began, reaching out his hand to calm her, as he could see she became more and more irritated the more she spoke of her father, the queen, and the connection both shared to the circumstances that had resulted in her imprisonment at the hands of the Inquisition—and he knew that even if she was entitled to her personal opinion, to say such things to anyone but him was treason of such a kind that she'd end up in the Tower and never come out with her head attached again if someone heard her. "I know you'd never do anything to betray your father or your family. I know that, I swear I do. And, I'd never ask it of you, so please...relax."

She stared at him for a minute, and then took a deep breath, finding comfort in his words. Relaxing slightly, some of the fight went out of her. He smiled, more because he was pleased that he'd been able to get her to calm down than anything else.

However, knowing he still needed to share his idea with her, Booth nodded at her and said, "You know, Bren, while I was in the infirmary and had all that time to think, I believe I've come up with a potential solution to the situation that will allow you to have your freedom without giving up your father."

"What?" she asked with an arched eyebrow of her own as she stared at him with some mild suspicion in her eyes. "What is it?"

"Hear me out before you gainsay me, alright?" he asked, knowing she felt skepticism at his words, but also believing that she'd hear what he had to say because it was him doing the speaking, he waited for her to nod her head in response before he continued speaking.

After a minute, as Booth had anticipated, Brennan slowly nodded her agreement, even as her pale eyes still gleamed with incertitude in the flickering candlelight.

Booth took a breath and then began to explain his idea. "Obviously, of the charges against you, the witchcraft charge is the more serious one," he began. "If we can somehow make that charge go away, that only leaves the charge of heresy, which has nothing to do with your father and everything to do with your own personal behavior. If you were to...well, if you admitted that you've espoused heretical views that contravene canon law, like reading the Bible in English and holding true to King Henry's Church of England reformist practices, all that would be required would be a fairly simple confession and then you'd have to complete the penance assigned to you. Your father would also have to pay a fine on your behalf, but once it was paid, and you'd done the penance you'd been given, no one would have anything against you. As far as the Inquisition would be concerned, there wouldn't be any need to continue to hold you once you repented and gained forgiveness for your sin. The prosecution of your case would be at an end."

She blinked at him several times, the surprise clear on her face as she registered the meaning of what he'd told her—obviously, his words not being those she'd expected to hear. Brennan considered his words for a very long moment, and then smiled as she realized the rather subtle genius of his suggested course of action. She smiled at him wryly as she commented, "Given my blunt tongue, I suppose there's no way I can legitimately deny what my opinion of papist doctrine is, is there?"

"No," he chuckled, a smile cracking his severe face for the first time since they'd started talking about the issue of her prosecution. "You can't."

"And you think...if I confessed to the charges of the dogmatic heresy, that it would be enough to satisfy the Inquisition?" Brennan asked, some of the amusement she'd briefly displayed giving way to more practical considerations as she nodded at him.

"Well, given the fact that I know your inquisitor fairly well, I'd say yes...provided that your charges of witchcraft went away," he smiled at her, refusing to let her moodiness ruin his own rather pleased mood. He nodded at her as he asked, "If they did, that is, if the witchcraft accusations disappeared...would you agree to confess to the charges of heresy?"

After another moment's thought, Brennan slowly nodded her head. "That is, if you think I can gain my freedom this way, and will no longer be used as a compulsion against my father?"

"I think this might achieve those goals, yes," he nodded in the affirmative.

"So long as the witchcraft charges go away?" Brennan asked.

Booth again nodded. "Yes."

She looked at him for a moment, and then sadly said, "But, Booth—how in heaven's name can we count on that occurring? The depositions...Michael and Daisy Stires. They'll never recant their statements, and without them recanting what evidence they've offered, there's no way to make those accusations of witchcraft accusations go away."

Booth was silent for a moment, and then his brow furrowed again before he gave her a rather sly smile. "Oh, I don't know if I'd say that, Bren. I don't know if I'd say that at all." He gave her a strange look that Brennan didn't understand, and she was even more confused with he vaguely said, "But, for now...why don't you let me worry about that one, hmmm?"

Frowning, Brennan gave him another questioning look, but when he smiled at her in calm reassurance, she temporarily conceded the point and slowly nodded her agreement to his plan. When they were done, their bargain struck, she leaned forward to reward him with a kiss of gratitude.

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><p><strong><span>AN: **_Well, well, well..._

_Looking back at the first few chapters of this story, would you have ever guessed these two would get to where they are now? Okay, well, you might've guessed, since Dharmasera is all about getting B&B together. But still, wow, huh? Isn't that something? And while these two clearly have an incredible, raging attraction to one another, there's a bit more going on than just brain chemicals and biological imperatives, right? _

_We sure hope you're enjoying this so far. We've got a few more chapters to go, and we've got the very serious business of how Booth is going to deal with the accusations laid by Michael and Daisy Stires. _

_This is a very different kind of story than any of the other Bones fanfics that are posting right now. We know that. But because we kind of went out on the edge to give you something that's a bit out of the ordinary, and because we don't have a lot of experience with presenting a story quite like this one, we really need you folks to tell us what you think. It's important. Please take the time to leave us a review. _

_Go ahead and click that wee review button down there. Yeah, that big, sparkly bright blue one that the FFnet people decided to redesign after all of Dharmasera's lobbying for a more prominent review button._

_You know what to do and where to do it. Oh, please. Don't be coy. Yes, our darlings, that button right there._

_Thanks. You know we love you guys!_


	10. Confession and Retribution

**The Inquisitor**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128  
><strong>Rated: <strong>M  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox by adverse possession. ::blinks:: Okay, not really. But, you get the gist.

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><p><strong>AN: **_Well, we're getting ever-closer to the end of this story. We are absolutely thrilled to bits at the response it's received. Thanks to everyone who has read this story, and an extra special double thank you to those who've reviewed this piece and let us know what you think. _

_This chapter contains discussions of some very serious topics that some readers might find somewhat uncomfortable or disturbing. If you think this is you, turn away now. The rest of you, read on._

__So, without further ado, let's get back to the Dominican house at Westminster.__

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><p><strong>Chapter 10: Confession and Retribution<strong>

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><p>Two days later, Booth stood up from his desk as the door opened, and the guard held it open. A young woman walked in and took her seat in the chair in the middle of the room that usually was reserved for Brennan during her interrogations. However, this time, another brunette took a seat in the chair.<p>

The woman was very young, not quite twenty years of age, and everything about her seemed fragile. She had a slender, oval face framed by delicate, rounded cheeks that were tinged slightly pink, small, narrow-set soft brown eyes, and a broad, smooth forehead. He could see from the way her dress hung on her shoulders, and from the bony angularity of her wrists and hands, that she was a slightly built woman. She sat down in the chair and crossed her legs daintily, placing her hands on her lap, and then looked up at him, her light brown eyes blinking wide at him rimmed with her thick, dark black lashes with curious uncertainty. When he didn't say anything—besides briefly looking up at her when she entered to give her a brief nod of acknowledgement—but continued making a few notes that he'd begun to write down in his ledger before she'd entered the room, her left foot began shaking slightly as her eyes darted around the room. She studied her surroundings with vague interest, her mouth pursed into a slightly mewed shape with her bottom lip partially jutting out over her top one. He took another minute to finish making his notes, and then, Booth set his quill pen in its holder, he sanded the ink he'd just written on the stretch of calfskin vellum that sat on the wide-oak table in front of him, and then looked up with a neutral, if measuring, glance.

"Good morrow, Father," she said with a quiet smile once noticed Booth was watching her.

She stopped fidgeting when he stood and clasped his hands behind his back. With another slight inclination of his head, he replied in a firm voice, "Good morning, Mistress Stires."

"Please, Father," she smiled at him. "There's no need for you to stand unless that's your preference. You can call me 'Daisy,' if you'd like."

"As you wish...Daisy," he said with another polite tilt of his head. He was quiet for another purposeful moment before he said vaguely, "I presume you know why I've asked you be brought here today."

Her smile faded as she watched the priest's brows furrow over his eyes as she realized he was quite different in both his diction, manner, and bearing than the two previous Inquisitors with whom she'd engaged in dialogue with about Brennan at her husband's behest. Daisy swallowed nervously, licking her lips and unconsciously averting her normally effervescent gaze. "I'd assumed—that is, I would guess...is this about Mistress Brennan?" she asked, her voice quiet.

Booth arched an eyebrow and cocked his head as he looked at her. He watched her for a minute and then commanded her in a quiet but firm voice, neither confirming or denying the answer to her query, "Tell me about your husband."

"My husband?" she croaked, the surprise in her voice obvious. "But, what do you want to know about Michael? What does he have to do with any of this? I thought, that is, I-I thought this was just about Mistress Brennan."

Booth unclasped his hands and stepped away from the front of the table, taking his place in front of her as he crossed his arms and surveyed her with a hard, narrow-eyed glare.

"The scope of this inquisition isn't limited to any one particular person or set of events," he said darkly. "It's alleged that Michael Stires has been bewitched by some kind of unholy sorcery, and that, as a result of said bewitching, firstly, he's no longer able to function as a man and, secondly, that the children of his body die, either in the womb or immediately after birth. It is my task, as Inquisitor, to determine by what means this bewitching has been wrought, to assign guilt accordingly, and to mete out punishment to the guilty individual in accordance with the requirements of canon law. That means that I must obtain any and all information that might be available to me, even if it seems potentially unimportant, so that I'm able to be as well-informed as I can. That, in turn, will allow me to be as thorough as possible in the whole of my investigation and enable to me eventually render as accurate and equitable a finding as is possible."

"Forgive me, Father," the young woman said weakly as her doe eyes glazed over a bit at his use of so many large words. "But, I don't understand."

"You don't need to," Booth replied tersely. He felt his frustration flare at Daisy's inability to give him the information he needed to proceed in his plan to free Brennan. However, when he saw the woman flinch a bit at the sharpness of his words, he immediately regretted his actions. Feeling contrite, he softened his facial features and then said quietly, "Mistress Stires—that is, Daisy. Please. Tell me about your husband, Michael."

She blinked at him for a moment, responding to the softness of his demeanor. Nodding slowly, she asked him, "What do you want to know?"

"Well," Booth said. "Maybe you could start with how you met. You could tell me how is it that he came to be your husband?"

Daisy Stires flinched at the question, then stared into her lap, threading her fingers together as she kneaded her hands. "Alright," she nodded. She paused for another minute, drew a short breath, and then began to talk. "Five years ago," she said quietly. "I went with my father, Master David Wick, to procure a new saddle for our horse. My family is from Eltham originally. When I was a little girl, my father used to take me to the annual horse fair there. I fell in love with this spotted Exmoor pony. My father saw how happy it made me, and so he bought it for me to learn to ride when I was six. I've been riding at least two hours a day ever since then because I just love horses."

"Err, yes—" Booth nodded, trying to keep his patience as he nodded. "They're wonderful creatures."

"Do you like horses, Father?" Daisy asked, true curiosity shining in her eyes.

Before he'd even realized what he was doing, Booth nodded, as he sincerely answered, "When I was a child, my father bred horses on his manor in Kent. So, yes, I like them very much."

"We had a wonderful bay gelding named Eugene," Daisy said dreamily. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I'll always love Jock—that was the name of the first spotted pony that my father bought me so that I could learn to ride when I was a child. We named him Jock for some reason that I can't really remember. I know it's a French name, and as good Englishmen, we hate the French. But, Jock was the pony's name. It fit him for some reason. Maybe he had an English version of the name at some point, but would only answer to the French version because he was trained or owned at some point by a Frenchmen? Not that he could be blamed for such a thing, poor pony—to be owned by a Frenchmen even though he was of good English stock. But, Eugene...he was all English. There wasn't any doubt about his nationality. He was a completely loyal subject of the king. He was such a darling, too. We kept him as a biddable horse that my mother could use to hitch to her cart when she wanted to drive herself to town for church or on market days. I really loved him, with his large watery brown eyes, and soft hair, and sweet, sweet breath. He was a very good horse, you see, and—"

Unable to help himself, as he knew he had to draw the line about hearing how sweet a horse's breath was, as Booth—in his many, many years of experience with horseflesh, had never, _ever _encountered a horse's breath that smelled remotely in a way that he'd describe as, well...sweet—Booth coughed loudly. When Daisy continued to ramble, lost in her own reverie as she verbally travelled down the pretty picture of memory lane with Jock and Eugene, Booth rolled his eyes.

"Mistress Stires," he said wearily. "Errr—sorry. Daisy, that is—I'm sorry. But, in the interest of time, I must ask—is the horse pertinent to this story? Because, if not, I must ask that you return to the information that would only help me be informed about Mistress Brennan's case—and not would be pets...even if they were very good horses, I'm sure." He blinked at her. "I'm afraid I just don't have time to hear about such graceful creatures...even though I can appreciate what I'm sure are your very fond memories of them."

"Oh," she said with a blush. "Right. My apologies. I just get carried away sometimes, and you're right, I really did think of Jock and Eugene more as family members than horses...or even pets. You see, each night I'd go to the barn and feed them each an apple that I'd picked from our orchard. They were the most beautiful, shiny red apples you've ever seen...and they tasted pretty good to humans and horses both. The horses liked the red apples that had the shiniest red skins for some reason. I'm not certain what made the apples so shiny when they were growing on the trees in the orchard. Perhaps it had something to do with the amount of water the apple trees got while they were growing the fruit. But, if the red skins weren't enough of a high gloss, then sometimes I had to give them two cubes of sugar as an after-dinner dessert. But, only two cubes, you understand—no more, no less, because otherwise they'd get sick. Horribly sick, actually. It's a distemper of their stomachs or the digestive tracts that makes them fretfully unhappy to comfort when they're disquieted in such a way. Horses can get colic, you see, if they eat too much food in their diet that isn't a grain or grass. But, I'm sure you know that since you said you grew up on a manor where you father had horses. I remember one time that I gave one of our mares, Vida, too many carrots, and she got so sick because her stomach was fussy after she'd just foaled the most beautiful baby boy horse that we'd named William. But, we called him Tricky Billy as he got older because he was so wily when it came to how he avoided being groomed for the fair each spring, and—"

"Daisy," Booth interrupted her with a very audible sigh. "On task, remember? Pertinent details only, please."

The young woman's eyes widened again as she nodded. "Errr, right. Yes. Eugene," she said with a slightly sheepish look on her face.

"Is Eugene directly relevant to explaining how you came to marry Michael Stires?" Booth asked, unwilling to endure another Daisy-tangent.

In response, Daisy quickly nodded her head. "Yes, very much so," she said.

"Then, please," Booth gestured. "Continue. But try to...stay on the riding path, as it were."

"Alright," Daisy said. "So, as I was saying, about five years ago, we went to the saddler's shop to talk to the saddler, who was Michael, because that's what he does. Or, that's what he did even then, but he still does it. Because he's a saddler—" Daisy's eyes darted to meet Booth's, and she swallowed once when she saw him frowning at her. Pursing her lips, she took a breath and refocused as she said, "But, you knew that. And, that's not what you want to know anyway. But, what you don't know—and the part of this that I'm sure you do want to know is that we'd gone to see Michael about fitting our horse, Eugene, for a new saddle, as the old one was worn and had begun to rot a bit around the edges on account of our horse's sweat, which wasn't as sweet smelling as their breath, by the by, and it was said Michael made beautiful and durable saddles at a very fair cost. He's always been rather skilled when it comes to working with various types of leather, be it plain leather made from cowhide or the more expensive and rare kinds that he imports from Spain. I remember this one time he received a supply of leather from Barcelona by pure accident that was the softest kidskin leather that you've ever felt. I almost wanted to ask Michael to make me an outfit entirely made of the kidskin because it was so wonderful, but he said we didn't have enough in the shipment, and besides a leather outfit wouldn't be practical since he didn't know where on earth I'd ever wear it, even though I do so love the way leather feels against my skin—"

"Focus, Mistress," Booth suddenly snapped, his patience with Daisy fraying rapidly.

_For the love of God, this woman is a piece of work, _he thought. _Now, Bren? Sure, she'd try the patience of a saint, but in the end, I think the saints would find a way to manage. But this woman? God bless her, she's annoying. Surely even the most patient of the saints, Saint Monica, leading the good mother of Saint Augustine to flee the confines of Heaven and take refuge in Purgatory if it meant getting away from this woman's rudderless prattle. _Booth raised his eyebrows as he remembered a dog he'd had as a boy, an excellent foxhound, obedient and clever, fleet of foot and, above all the other hounds in his father's pack, tough. But the hound's only flaw was his distractibility_—_the dog would be hard on the heels of a fox, leading the pack through the brambles when all of a sudden he'd halt his advance and turn his attention to the trunk of a nearby tree, where he'd cornered a twittering squirrel. _This woman is like that squirrel-chasing hound, _he thought_._

"Please," he groaned. "Focus on the saddler, not the saddle. Alright?"

"Yes, yes," she whispered, her head shaking furiously once again. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Booth told her. "Just...please. Stick to the relevant details, Daisy, mmm?"

Swallowing, Daisy drew another breath that made Booth mentally wince as he wondered what she'd use it to verbally upchuck on him next. Thus, he was quite surprised when, instead of spewing such chaotic drivel at him as she'd been doing up to that point, Daisy got more or less straight to the point when she spoke again.

"Yes, so, anyway," she said. "On that day when I'd accompanied my father to see Michael about procuring a new saddle, while my father talked to Michael about the particulars of the saddle we wanted, and they went out to measure our horse—Eugene, you'll recall was his name, I'm sure—for the saddle, I walked around the shop, because the whole thing was really quite boring, all the leather and the tackle and everything."

She watched the priest's brows tremble as his impatience mounted, and she continued. "But, while I was exploring, I eventually came upon this man, a young man, working in the back of the shop at a bench, hand-tooling the leather trim of a very fine saddle. He was a bit scrawny-looking, all bones and no meat on him because he was still a growing boy at that point. He was just on the brink of manhood, you see, on the day we first met. But, when he looked up from his bench, and our eyes met, I felt like I'd never felt before in my entire life. I felt like I saw my future flash before me as I looked in his eyes. And, well...it was magic."

She paused as she suddenly remembered to whom she was speaking as she quickly amended her statement, "Errr, that's not what I meant to say. It wasn't magic, of course. I meant to say that it was _like _magic. Because I'm not a witch, and neither was Lance, and neither of us practice such black arts like those people who offend God and are witches. Like I suppose Mistress Brennan to be, although I never suspected she was the type originally. She was just a smart woman. However, if Michael said she's a witch, then she must be. I mean, what other explanation can there be? But, in either case, you needn't worry about adding other charges to her because I didn't even know her at the time I meant Lance, so she couldn't be the one who bewitched the pair of us then. Although, if that was magic that I felt cast on me that day—more so than Cupid's arrow striking me right in the heart, then perhaps not all magic is bad. Because, I fell in love that day. As soon as a I saw him, I just knew."

She stopped, a happy smile almost singlehandedly transforming her sad face so that it took on a romantic, dreamy quality. "He had these very dark brown eyes—even darker than yours, Father—that were just so very expressive, that I saw everything he was thinking and feeling whenever I looked into them. He had the cutest mop of dark hair that adorably curled at his nape in this slight way that framed his round handsome face." She paused again, lost in her memories. Her smile grew a bit wider as she continued, "I can't lie and say that I didn't find myself quite taken with him. His name was Lance, although I always called him Lancelot, you know, after the knight who was one of the Knights of the Round Table. The most handsome, the bravest, the kindest, the strongest, and best of all the knights who served King Arthur in Camelot—"

Booth sighed loudly once more. "I know who Lancelot is, Daisy," he growled. "Please. Continue. But try to focus on the important, _material _parts of the story, Mistress—the ones pertinent to how Michael Stires became your husband, and less so on the trivial bits…"

Daisy nibbled the inside of her lip as she considered his words. She then nodded once again before she continued. "Yes," she said quietly, her expression brightening as she began to speak again. "Quite right. I'm sorry. It's just that I don't get to speak of Lance very often, and I miss him so very much."

"Miss him?" Booth interjected in spite of his vow not to interrupt Daisy as long as she was speaking relevant parts of her story. "Why did you miss him? Did he run off to break the terms of his apprenticeship or something similar? Since, I assume, from your description, he was apprenticed to Stires?

Booth chewed the inside of his lip in thought. _If this doesn't work, and I can't get Daisy to recant her deposition—or, at this rate, get to some kind of point in any case—maybe I'll have to track down this Sweets and see what he knows. Stires is lying. I know it in my gut. _He sighed and watched Daisy's hands clasp and unclasp nervously. _But I can't prove it. And to overcome the weight of the sworn depositions, I need proof of some kind. Another witness statement to counter the assertions in Stires' deposition, or...or something else..._

"Of course," Booth said. "It's not that unusual for a young apprentice to run from his indenture. Especially where the master craftsman is a stern overseer like Michael."

At Booth's question, Daisy paled a bit—and for once, it had nothing to do with a word, gesture, or look of displeasure from Booth. "No," she said with a shake of her head. "He didn't run off or try to break his agreement with Michael."

"Then, what was it?" Booth asked, a bit confused by her sudden shift in demeanor that more closely matched the glum manner she'd had when she'd first entered Booth's interrogation room. "Did Michael not want to approve Lance's desire to court you—since I assume he was as taken with you as you were with him?"

"Lance and I were both quite taken with one another," she answered. "So much so that, over the next couple of months, we began courting, and after a few more months, we were betrothed. Michael took no issue with it when Lance asked for his permission to marry. We were very much in love, Lance and I, and I was so excited to be finally married to him . It was a very happy time in my life, one that I'll always treasure until the day I die and hopefully go to heaven. But—"

"But you did not marry him," Booth said. His brow again furrowed as he saw Daisy pale again.

"No," she said softly. "I didn't."

"Why not?"

Daisy's face blanched and her eyes fell once more to her lap. She stared at a spot on the room's far wall for a long minute as she drew even breaths, the most measured that Booth had noticed her take since she'd begun to speak. It was then that he realized that she was not being deliberately obstructive like he had seen many, many witnesses do over the years of handling cases before the curia and, more recently, in his role as an inquisitor—as a means of stalling for time because they didn't want to furnish the information he sought—but rather paused for one reason only: to keep from losing control of her emotions, and to hold off what Booth sensed could be a very emotive bout of tears, particularly since he guessed her to be a very skilled crier.

Content to let her take her time if it meant that she wouldn't start sobbing, because he secretly hated it whenever women cried because it made him feel awkward and useless, he was patient. He stood there but said nothing, and didn't press her. After, another minute, his decision was rewarded when she continued her tale in a relatively calm and measured tone of voice.

"Not quite a year after we'd met and begun courting, but two weeks before we were to be married," she said quietly, "Lance was visiting the home of a customer, a wool merchant who'd just built a country home in Tottenham, who needed him to make some repairs to a saddle on short notice because the merchant was on his way to Lincoln to meet with a buyer of woolen cloth, and wanted to use his new, very fine saddle on that trip." She pursed her lips and hesitated a few seconds before she sighed and continued her story. "Lance went into the stable to inspect the saddle's fit on the horse and, though I'm still not entirely sure how it came to pass, he...h-he...he..." A large knot of emotion caused her throat to tighten. "I'm sorry," she choked as she let out a large puff of air. "As I said, I don't speak of this very often, and some parts are more difficult to remember and to share than others."

"It's alright," Booth said in what he hoped was a comforting voice. "Take your time."

Daisy nodded, waited another moment, and then said softly.

"He was kicked by the horse in the face," she said with a surprising evenness in her voice that fled as soon as the the last word left her mouth. Her eyes began to well up with tears as she buried her face in her hands.

"He died," she said. "There was nothing that we could do to help him by the time he was found. Oh, God—my Sweet Lancelot. My poor Sweet, Sweet Lancelot. He, uhhh, he—he died, you see...six days later, just a week and a day before we were to be wed, and..." Her voice trailed off into a half-swallowed sob as she began to cry. After a few moments, she drew in a breath and quickly added, "The surgeon said the kick caused him to bleed inside his head and that there was nothing he could've done to rouse Lance from the slumber he'd slipped into once he was hurt. So, all we could do was bring him home, bathe his sweet, angelic face, tuck him into bed, and sit with him—waiting, hoping, praying for him to wake up." She wiped the tears from her eyes with her dainty fingertips. "But—he never did," she whispered in so soft a voice that Booth almost didn't hear what she'd said. "He never woke up. He never did."

Her tale told, Daisy's head fell into her hands, and she began to wail in earnest, her shoulders shaking as she cried at recalling the last hours she'd spent watching the love of her life slip away from her before they'd even had a chance to live a fraction of what was to have been their shared life.

Booth rolled his lips together in a firm line as he watched her, and he felt a heavy ache in his heart, partly for the delicate young woman before him and the suffering she had endured—and still endured—but also because he wondered what kind of anguish Brennan had felt at hearing that he was lingering on the narrow edge between life and death. He'd worried too, once the bleedings had stopped and they began to feed him again, but he had worried for her happiness, not because he thought he had lost her. _I felt it, _he told himself. _When we came together that day_—_her and I, in this very room, giving ourselves to each other in that way_—_that we shared more between us than just lust and sweat and giving into the physical wants and needs of our passions. I just know it. I felt it, and I know that she felt it, too. _He thought of how she had thrown herself at him when he came to her cell after a week in the infirmary, and how she clung to him as if for dear life. _The way she held me, _he thought, _spoke more of this thing between us than a poet like Henry Howard, or even Thomas Wyatt, could fill in a whole volume of verse. It's the same for her as it is for me. I just know it. _It pained him to think of how it must have been for her, waiting day after day for him to appear, but letting her candle snuff itself out in the wee hours of the morning, finally succumbing to sleep not knowing what had become of him. The swirl of emotions that coursed through him at that moment made him feel a little as though he knew Daisy's anguish as his own. _I'm so sorry_, a voice whispered in his head, although, in that moment, he didn't know if he meant it to Brennan, Daisy Stires, or both women. Nevertheless, the words suddenly tumbled out of his mouth before his brain had quite caught up with what he was actually saying.

"I'm sorry," Booth eventually said with complete and utter sincerity in his bearing as he felt empathy for the loss Daisy had suffered. "Very sorry, Daisy. But, take some comfort. He's in a better place now. Not in pain. Forever young and happy and just waiting for the day that you'll be called home so that the two of you both can spend eternity in God's grace in heaven."

"I know," Daisy whispered. "I just—I miss him, Father. I miss him so very much."

He watched her weep for another minute or so, then cleared his throat and asked, "As hard as that loss was, at some point, if I'm not putting too much of a fine point on it, you must've decided to do the right thing and move on—"

He paused, wondering whether Brennan would move on—and how long she might wait before doing so—if something happened to him. Booth felt certain that the way he felt about the midwife was something he had never felt before, and he doubted whether he would ever feel that way again. _I can't imagine losing her, _he thought. _And I can't imagine ever moving on from her. Never._

He then shook his head as he continued, "Because, you did eventually marry Michael Stires. You married and began to build a family and a future for yourself. Tell me...how did you do that? How did you go from losing Lance to marrying Michael?"

She thought for a moment about how to answer his question. Then, drawing a breath, she said, "After Lance…well, after I lost him, I wasn't quite in my right mind. I spent a great deal of time alone, not really wanting to be around people. I didn't eat much, I didn't speak much, and all I wanted to do was sleep. You see, when I was asleep, Lance was still alive, and it didn't hurt so much as it did when I was awake. So, for a long while—I'm not quite certain how long, but it was a long time, I sorta just spent the days and nights drifting from hour to hour. Sometimes, occasionally, I'd go to visit Lance at the small chapel where we...well, we we'd laid him to rest when he'd passed. One day, I went there to bring him a bouquet of wildflowers that I picked, and I found Michael there paying his respects. We spent a long time in silence, and then, Michael asked me if I was hungry. I'd opened my mouth to speak, to tell him no, I hadn't been hungry in some months. But, then he took out this hunk of bread and some soft white cheese, and he offered me some. My stomach grumbled when I smelled it, and I took some of what he'd offered me before I'd even realized what I was doing."

She paused as she smiled faintly at the thought. "So, anyway, after that, we often met near the church, just to talk. And, after a while—well, Michael was very kind to me and to my family, comforting me after losing Lance. Eventually, one day, he kissed me." She blushed faintly at the memory. "And, when I went home that night, as I got ready for bed, I'd realized that I'd spent the entire afternoon thinking about Michael, and I hadn't once thought about Lance. I felt a bit guilty, at first, but I knew that Lance respected Michael. I think he trusted him. And, I knew that Lance would want me to move on and try to find some happiness because he loved me and only wanted the best for me. So, when Michael asked if he could come to see me, I said yes. He began to court me, and though he always said he was not ever going to replace Lance in my heart, he hoped I could find a way to love him. He was very sweet and very gentle to me, and my father encouraged me to receive his affections. About a year after that, we were betrothed and married at the Church of St. Giles Cripplegate. That was four years ago."

Booth pressed his tongue against the inside of his lip and thought for a moment. _This doesn't make sense, _he thought. _As she tells it, he was a decent fellow, and good to her. I know this man only through reading his depositions and the word of two women who knew him, one of whom he has accused of some of the gravest possible crimes. _Nothing he had heard from Daisy seemed untrue, but it didn't square with what he had been told by Brennan. He shifted his jaw forward as he considered his next move. _I need to see this man with my own eyes, to hear him speak with my own ears. _He watched Daisy as she hiccuped, wiping the tears away from her mouth. _Besides, _he thought with a wry smile, _it'd give me a break from this verbose termagant. She seems to be a good woman, but Holy Mary, she's a lot to handle and not be exhausted or overwhelmed by in any significant span of time. _

"Mistress Stires," he said. "I must leave for a moment. Perhaps now would be a good time to take a brief recess? I'll be back in a little while, say, maybe a half hour." He began to walk towards the door, then paused and turned around. "Shall I have anything brought to you while you wait? A cup of cider or ale, perhaps? Maybe some bread and cheese?"

Daisy's eyes brightened at his offer. "A cider might be nice," she said. "Thank you, Father."

Booth nodded with a smile. "Gladly, Mistress Stires," he said. "I'll have the boy bring one for you." Then he turned and, opening the door with a quiet grunt, walked out into the corridor.

* * *

><p>Booth let the heavy door of Daisy Stires' interrogation room close behind him, and for several moments stood in the hallway, silent as he stared off into the distance as he became lost in deep thought. After a span, he took a long, heavy breath, steeled himself for what he would next face, put on as neutral expression as he could, walked a few paces down the corridor and entered into the next, similarly-furnished room.<p>

He was quiet for a moment, walking in firm but measured steps as he entered the room and, as he walked towards the inquisitor's table and chair, studied the man in the witness's chair.

"You're Michael Stires?" Booth asked tersely, his voice in clipped if measured terms as he spoke.

Though he was seated, Booth could tell the man was tall—although not quite so tall that he would dwarf Booth, but probably merely edged a couple of inches taller than the Inquisitor—and, while lean in build, his body was obviously strong and fit. He was clad in a tradesman's linen shirt and brown vest, with black pants and boots that were scuffed from use. He sat rigidly in the chair, his angular features hard as his blue eyes met Booth's in a hard stare.

"Yes, Brother," he said firmly. "I am."

"Very well," Booth said with pithy nod.

"Forgive me, Brother," Stires said. "I'm a blunt man by nature, so I hope you won't take offense at my directness. But, why have I been called here? And, where is my wife? Why have I been separated from her?"

He stopped, sighed, and then added in a slightly more measured voice, "I apologize. However, I've been waiting here for some hours, and every time I've asked someone as to why my presence was requested, no one could tell me anything. I've already lost three jobs because I was away from my shop today, and if I can't return home soon, it will mean I won't be able to do the preparatory work necessary for me to complete the commission that the Duke of Norfolk already prepaid me a substantial amount over what I normally charge for my leatherworking skills, provided I deliver the goods he requested by tomorrow evening. So, please, tell me what this is all about."

Booth pursed his lips for a minute. "Alright," he said. "You said you're a blunt man by nature, and I can respect that. But, I hope you will return the favor that I did in not taking offense at your compendiary statements by not being affronted by my statements because I have need to ask you some questions."

"Questions about what?" Stires asked. "Because I hope I haven't wasted almost an entire work day about something that both my wife and I have already spent a tremendous amount of time, energy, and effort to bear truthful witness to so that God's work may be done."

"Meaning?" Booth asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Meaning," Stires responded, "that if this is about the case of Temperance Brennan, the witch, I've twice now given depositions to the friars in charge of the case. Surely you aren't telling me that I was called back here to speak with a junior inquisitor over a situation of which I have no new information to contribute. At least I hope that's not what you're telling me."

"And if I am?" Booth asked him.

He shook his head with a scowl and cracked his knuckles as he finished speaking. "As I said, I hope that's not what you're telling me because if so...I would be very displeased, Brother."

Booth grunted dismissively. "Well," he began. "Let's get a few thing straight, shall we? For one thing, it's 'Father,' not 'Brother,' so I ask that you call me by my proper title, Master Stires." He narrowed his eyes and smirked, noting the surprise that registered on Stires' face. "Secondly, I _am _the inquisitor in charge of this case, and have been for weeks. And, thirdly, though it's implicit in the fact that I am the inquisitor on this case, I am not a 'junior inquisitor.' Fourthly, as Inquisitor, I am permitted to question anyone and everyone I deem in my sole discretion necessary to carry out the fact-finding which must be complete before I can render a decision in this case. That means, Master Stires, that I can call you as many times as I wish to give testimony on whatever matters I believe pertinent to this _inquisitio_." Booth leaned back against the table and arched an eyebrow as he cocked his head at the man before him. "Do you understand me, Master Stires?"

Stires blinked Booth, holding his hard gaze for a long moment. When he saw the priest could not be intimidated, he scowled, but looked away in slight deference as he muttered, "Yes...Father."

Somewhat pleased, Booth sat there, neither moving nor speaking, for nearly a minute as he watched Stires shift impatiently in his seat. He remembered Brennan sitting in the very seat that Daisy currently occupied in the other interrogation room. He also recalled how she'd told him—on what seemed like a day that was so very far away, a lifetime ago, it seemed, but in reality, had only been two weeks earlier—of how Stires had cornered her in the barn and attempted to assault her before she'd defended herself with a hoof knife. As he recalled her words, he felt anger begin to simmer in his chest. When she'd first told him of her encounter with Stires in the barn, in the first days of his inquisition of her, he'd found the episode distasteful—not just because he felt ill thinking of a man forcing himself on a woman, but in no small part also because of the confusing emotions her story aroused in him—but now that he found himself face to face with the man who sought to rape the woman he cared for, Booth felt his blood begin to boil and every muscle in his body tense. He scanned Stires' long, angular face with his blue eyes and his creased brow, and he felt a quivering in his limbs that he had never felt before.

He rolled his shoulder and tried to shake off the twitchy feeling. He remained silent, watching stires as he thought of how much Brennan had done for him and his wife, in attending on her during her pregnancies and her two labors, and sitting with her as she lay ill, her skin waxy and pale in the wake of miscarrying the third child. _Bren not only did her duty for them, , _he thought, _but she went above and beyond for this man and his wife. Even after what he tried to do to her. Just because that's type of woman she is. Incredible. _He remembered what Brennan had told him the night before, as she lay with her head on his sweat-slicked chest as he rested his chin on her head and stroked his fingers through her hair. She told him about Daisy's lingering illness after her near-fatal miscarriage, and about a visit she had received from Daisy Stires a couple of weeks later.

"_She came to me," Brennan had said. "She was in tears. 'He came to my bed last night,' she told me. 'I didn't want to,' she said. 'But he forced me. I kept saying no, no, no, but he wouldn't listen. He pinned my hands to the bed, and he said that it was not for me to choose whether or not to give myself to him, because it was my duty as a wife to let him have me whenever and however he wanted me.'" _

_Brennan's jaw had hardened as she spoke. _

"_She told me that she'd argued with him afterwards, about his drinking, his anger, and his whoring, and that he'd slapped her when she wouldn't let things go as he'd counseled her. I think she fell when he struck her, but I wondered even then if it was more than the light slap that Daisy recounted to me. I could see that her lip was cut open, and that she bore a bruise on her cheekbone, and although she said she fell when he slapped her, it makes more sense that he struck her with a closed fist and not an open hand. Such a strike would explain such injuries." Brennan paused and then sighed, "But what worried me as much as the marks he had left on her were the marks I saw on her hands."_

"_What do you mean?" Booth had asked her, shaking his head in confusion._

_Brennan sighed before she clarified, "I saw them."_

"_Saw what?"_

"_Reddish-brown dots, like pimples, covered her hands and wrists," Brennan explained. "I must confess, I recoiled somewhat at seeing her, for I knew immediately what it was_—_there could be no mistaking them. I knew as soon as I saw them."_

"_Knew what?" Booth questioned her with a grim look on his face._

"_She had the pox," Brennan said. "I knew it when I saw it because I'd seen it before, on women I have helped with birthing. Not often, but commonly enough, unfortunately for the sad women whose menfolk had brought it home to poison their marriage beds with it." A frown crossed her face as she remembered. "And, then, of course, I'd seen it one other time, on a man." _

_Shaking his head in confusion, Booth said, "I don't understand. I wasn't aware that you'd ever expanded your practice to treat male patients."_

"_I hadn't," Brennan said._

"_Then, where_—?"

_Brennan was quiet for a minute and then turned her head, averting her eyes as she blinked away a memory. "I saw it before when Michael Stires, came at me...that day...when he came upon me in the barn."_

"_He had the pox," Booth whispered as the pieces fell into place in his mind. "And he gave it to his wife?" _

_Slowly, she nodded. "Yes, I think so."_

_Looking away, Booth swallowed before he asked, "Did he catch it from the…" He flushed slightly. "From the other women he had bedded?"_

_"I don't know," Brennan shrugged with a slight roll of her shoulders. "I can only imagine, yes. I mean, where else could he have contracted such a thing if not in a whore's bed?"_

_He gritted his teeth as he exhaled a long slow breath. "And, knowing that he was infected, he still went at you and would've given it to you, too?" Booth asked, the rage seething quietly as he stared at her in anticipation of her answer._

_Brennan, hoping to answer the question without inciting too much more of his anger, could only silently nod in response._

Booth's jaw tensed as he felt the bile rise in his throat as he pushed away the memory—but not the anger and quiet rage that had continued to seethe the longer he was in the saddler's presence.

_Proof, _he told himself. _I need proof. The word of the accused is not enough here, even though I believe her. I must find the proof that others who read my report will conclude as I have. If I can corroborate her story, and cast doubt on Stires' story, then I...wait. That...yes. That's it. That might just be it. Proof. Incontrovertible proof. I need proof that Stires can't alter or destroy without doing great personal harm to himself. _

_Yes..._

"Stand up," he demanded of Stires.

"What?" Stires grunted with pursed lips, clearly not understanding what the friar wanted of him. "Why?"

"Because I told you to," Booth replied, pushing himself off the table against which he'd been leaning and raising himself to his full height. "Stand up, _now_."

The saddler hesitated, furrowing his brows as he scanned the friar's hardened face. "For what purpose? Why should I..." Stires' voice trailed off.

"Now," he said again, emotion continuing to color his voice. Booth no longer cared if he sounded angry or not. "You'll do it _now. _Either of your own volition, or I can call the guards in, and they'll place you under arrest for interfering with a properly-ordained _inquisitio _and make you stand anyway_. _So, in either case, you will be standing, Master Stires. It's just a question of how, but the choice is yours, saddler...if you act quickly, before I take that choice away from you and make the decision as to how this will go myself."

Stires swallowed, then slowly stood up. "This isn't right," he muttered under his breath. "It's utter horseshite."

Booth raised his chin and gave the saddler a grim look. "Pull up your sleeve," he ordered him. Seeing Stires hesitate again, he took two steps forward and pointed at the saddler's right arm. "Lift your sleeve, Master Stires." Stires shook his head, muttering something inaudible, as he reached over and slowly pulled the sleeve of his linen shirt over his wrist and all the way up to his elbow. Booth narrowed his eyes. "Turn your arm over," he barked. Stires rotated his arm, revealing a long, jagged, fading pink scar that ran from the heel of his palm to the crook of his elbow.

Booth narrowed his eyes at the sight of the scar, which was just as Brennan had described the way she had wounded Stires when she slashed him with the hoof knife. _I didn't doubt her, _he thought to himself. _This proves that Stires had a motive to bring false witness against her. _Booth's eyes followed the path of the scar with a distant, imprecise gaze as his mind raced. _This man may be a respected tradesman, but having been maimed by the very woman who he has accused, his credibility is in grave question. _He took a breath as he felt his pulse quicken. _I need more. The Archbishop will probably accept this as evidence that the credibility of the prime witness is flawed, but...it's not enough. At least, I don't think it is. And...it's Bren's freedom that's at stake. Her...for her, I can't take the risk. I have to be certain. I have to_—_for Brennan...I've got to be as sure as I can be. I must be certain. And so..._

_I need more._

Booth took a deep breath as he tried to control the rising wave of anger inside of him. "How did you get that nasty wound?" he asked, biting the inside of his lip as his nostrils flared in growing fury.

He needed to prove how the saddler got the wound, but needed more than the statement of the accused, whose testimony faced a problem of credibility on account of the fact that she stood implicated on charges that translated to a potentially capital offense. He knew he needed to get Stires to corroborate her statement himself. Then, he knew, he'd have his proof. Incontrovertible, unassailable proof...that would lead to Brennan's freedom.

"Tell me, Master Stires," Booth urged him, his voice edged with sarcasm. "Was it an inconvenient wound you received during an honest day's labor when you had a bit of bad luck, a small leatherworking injury of some kind that's left you scarred there?"

Stires stared straight ahead, unwilling to meet Booth's wilting gaze. He swallowed but said nothing as he jerked his sleeve down over the ugly scar and stood there stiffly.

"Answer me," Booth grunted. "Who did that to you?" Hearing nothing from the witness but the sound of his ragged, nervous breathing, Booth pressed him. "I suspect that, if you'd have gotten cut in a fight with another man, you'd admit it. The shame would be if you got cut up like that by a woman. A tall, strong man like you, sliced up like a dinner roast by some woman. What happened, saddler? Huh? Did you come home late for supper after spending the afternoon with a lady companion and get into some sort of confrontation with your young wife Daisy there? Seems like quite a nasty licking she gave you, a little wisp of a woman like that." Booth cocked his head and looked at Stires with a wry grin. "I'd have thought you more capable of controlling your own wife, man."

Booth's words hung heavy in the air between them as Stires' face flushed deeply red.

"I control my own wife just fine," Stires growled. "It wasn't her."

_There you go, _Booth thought. _He's getting pissed. That's it. _He crossed his arms and said nothing for several long moments as he watched Stires stand there, angry, annoyed and decidedly more off-kilter than he was just a minute before.

"Hmmm," Booth murmured, flashing his eyebrows before turning around and walking back towards the table. "Right." He stood next to the inquisitor's desk and drummed his fingers on the well-worn oak surface, then turned once to to Stires. "Take off your shirt."

Stires laughed. "What?" he snorted. "This is lunacy."

"Take it off," Booth said, his cheek twitching in anticipation of Stires's response as the saddler stood there rigidly with his hands propped on his hips as his eyes flashed with anger. "That is, unless you'd like to make good on that longtime fantasy you've had of finally getting to spend the night in a room with Mistress Brennan." He smirked. "Because I can arrange that, if you wish. But this time, you tosspot, I can assure you that she'll have something better than a simple hoof knife to make certain that you behave yourself as any civilized man knows how to handle himself in the presence of another human being."

Booth stopped and then shot Stires a dangerous look as he added, "This time, I bet she'll do what she should've done the first time and take those sack sorry balls of yours clean off with a single stroke." Booth punctuated his threat with a _tssssst _sound and a slicing gesture with his forefingers. "But, then again, nobody's perfect, so as long as the job gets done, it doesn't really matter if she finishes up on a second go, huh?"

Stires stared at Booth, his blue eyes blazing with a cold fury and righteous indignation as he glared at the Inquisitor. "That bitch," Stires hissed. "That frigid, worthless bitch! She told you, didn't she? That evil harpy's spreading her filthy, horrible lies about me again. I can't believe that you'd take the word of no-good heretical whore over a good Christian man like myself."

Booth's jaw hardened to steel as his teeth clenched at hearing the saddler's words. _This worthless swine doesn't deserve to even breathe the same damn air as she does, _he thought sourly. _I think I want to rip this nasty tosser's balls off with my own bare hands and shove them down his sorry throat until he chokes to death. _He heard his blood roaring in his ears as the tips of his ears burned, and he knew he had to calm down. _But_—_no. __I can't. I can't do that. Not for him, though. _Booth told himself. _Not because of him. But for her. I can't do it because of her. I owe it to her to keep my shite together so I can put the pieces together. I must do as I promised, and help her in any way that I can. So that she can be free. I may want to murder this man right now, but I owe it to her to see with clear eyes. I must do my job to the best of my ability so that she's able to be free. Free...and vindicated of these slanderous aspersions that he's untruthfully laid against her. And then...afterwards. At some point, I'll have my chance to lay him low if I must. But not today. I can't... _He closed his eyes briefly as he struggled to maintain the last thread of his self-control. _I know I shouldn't want to harm another human being for such violence is a grave mortal sin against my conscience and contravenes God's grace. But I can't help it. And, for reasons I'm not sure I understand, I don't care that it's a sin. But...for her, I won't act. I'll wait. __For her. I can't do it now. I mustn't. I must be strong and do what must be done. I know I can do that. For her, I can do it. For her, I __will__ do it. But...only for her...because of her. Only for her. _

"Off," Booth snapped, jerking his chin up as he watched Stires shrug out of his vest and pull his shirt over his head.

Stires had no sooner pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it over the back of the chair before Booth's eyes widened at the sight of the pockmarked skin on the saddler's chest.

"She wasn't lying, was she?" Booth asked. "There it is, isn't it? The evidence is writ plain for all to see now that you can't hide it, you miserable bastard. You knew. All this time, _you knew_, you were tainted, and yet you still brought it home to your wife, and you'd still try to infect others. You souless cur."

"What?" Stires said, lifting himself up to face Booth. "Don't tell me that you can't honestly say that it matters or not whether a whore like Temperance Brennan was plucked by someone with the pox if she willed it or not. She's a devious strumpet who needs to be reminded that she's not so good as she thinks she is, being such an arrogant, holier-than-thous salacious trollop." Stires spat on the ground to emphasize his hatred for Brennan. He then added, "Why, who's to say that she hasn't already gotten the pox already from some other poor sod? She probably caught it when she was flopping down and spreading her legs for every stiff rod that takes her fancy and then gave it to my Daisy when she was helping to birth our sons that died. I'm not sure how, but I'm sure that's what happened. It's her fault we lost our boys because she gave it to Daisy somehow, and that's how Daisy gave it to me. I should kill her, that heartless, hypocritical bitch. I'll be glad on the day she burns and is sent on her merry way to hell for being the evil slut she is—"

Booth snarled a loud, almost dull roar as his patience snapped, and he strode across the room, moving so quickly that it took Stires by surprise. Booth grabbed Stires' shoulder with his left hand as he pulled his right arm back and slugged the saddler in the stomach. Stires grunted and doubled over, but Booth pulled him straight again.

"That," Booth hissed, "was for your wife and for the babies you doomed with your poisoned seed, you filthy, diseased swine."

Stires stared at him, stunned for a moment, then attempted to twist out of Booth's grasp.

"And _that_—" Booth reared his arm back and punched him again, even harder the second time. "That was for Temperance Brennan," he growled as Stires crumpled under the second blow, collapsing to the ground with a groan as Booth let go of his shoulder. "Would that she had cut your nasty balls off with that hoof knife years ago," Booth said. "It would've saved that young wife of yours, and who knows how many other women, a lot of sorrow and misery and grief."

"Hit me all you want," Stires gasped as he clutched his side, pain writ plain on his face. "But, it doesn't make what I said about her any less true. She's an evil, sinful whore."

"Just because she didn't swoon at your oh-so-romantic advances and let you bed her in a damn barn?" Booth spat.

"She was begging for it!" Stires suddenly gasped. "She wanted it! I know she did. But, it was foolish on my part. I don't know what I was thinking. She was an ice queen and definitely not worth it. She's a miserable, heartless, soulless woman who will never bring anything but misery to anyone who's sorry enough to fall into her Black Widow's web. That one's ruined more lives than I ever have, I promise you. And, she's going to burn for it, and the world will be a better place for it when she's dead and gone."

Booth had just turned and began to walk away when he heard Stires' last insult. He felt his ears flash hot, then paused and turned back to the saddler, who lay on his side on the slate floor. Standing over him with fury burning dark in his eyes, he stared hard at the groaning man, then, as if inspired by a moment of insight, kicked him between the legs.

"That," he hissed. "Was for _me_." Stires coughed and gagged, his face turning red as he gasped for air and tried to push away the stabbing pain that had made his eyes water. Booth looked down in satisfaction as he saw Stires writhe in pain. Smiling, he said, "Take your time. Be comfortable. There's no need to hurry since you won't be going anywhere anytime soon, Master Stires." He stopped and then bent down, coming close enough so that Stires could hear him even as he choked and contorted in pain on the interrogation room's floor.

"But a word to the wise, Master Stires—ever say another unkind or untoward word about Mistress Brennan...even so much as just _think _about saying something inappropriate, and I swear by God's Holy Grace and all the Saints' devotions, that you won't have need to fear _her _knife because I'll dispatch you _myself._" He paused before he reached down and grabbed Stires' jaw firmly in his hand, his fingertips digging into the saddler's skin. "Look at my face, huh? If anything happens to her, I will kill you. This is between you and me, and nobody sees, nobody knows. You got nothing to prove, understand? You understand?"

He waited only long enough for Stires to grunt in the affirmative before he stood up.

"Good," Booth spat. "Because, you know that whole Christian mercy thing? Well, that was the last of it that you'll ever see if I have anything to say about it. The very last." He then brushed his hands with a clear look of distaste on his robes, turned away from Stires, and silently walked out the door.

* * *

><p>A short time later, Booth stood outside the main interrogation room, staring at the door's coarse wood grain as he tried to focus his thoughts and slow his heaving breaths before reaching for the door handle. His mind was racing, and he felt a roaring in his ears that was slow to fade. He hadn't struck another human being since he was a boy—since the last time two of his older brothers jumped him in the loft above the stables on his parents' manor—and he felt a strange feeling, a certain hot-bloodedness, that made his muscles taut, his lungs feel big and his cheeks flush.<p>

After a few minutes, as he thought of Brennan, he started to feel his heart race slow and the loud pounding in his ears recede. He continued to breath deeply as he realized that he wouldn't be able to go to her as he so badly wanted until he'd finished this day's unpleasant business. Silently reminding himself of why he was doing this, and that it was all in the name of obtaining her freedom, Booth felt a bit of calm rigor renew in him. Knowing he had one final task to complete before the day's work was done, at last, when he knew he'd somewhat composed himself, he let his eyes refocus on the wooden door in front of him. He closed his eyes, took one more long, deep breath, and then opened the door. He walked back into the room, which was still illuminated by the slowly fading late afternoon sunlight that spilled in from a narrow window, and fell in a shaft across the floor.

He entered and walked past Daisy Stires who sat patiently in the witness's chair, holding a pewter tankard in her lap.

"Hello again, Father," she said brightly, a genuine smile lighting her face when she saw who'd entered the room.

"Mistress Stires," he said, deep lines running across his forehead as he furrowed his brow and tried to pull together this thoughts. After a moment, he knew what he would do. "I have a few more questions for you."

"Of course, Father," Daisy nodded pleasantly. "What can I tell you?"

"How did your husband get that terrible scar on his arm?" Booth asked bluntly.

Daisy stared at Booth for a minute, her eyes getting bigger for a minute and then she pursed her lips. "Oh, well...that," she murmured as some of the pleasantness from her demeanor leached away and a small frown appeared on her face "You want to know about that?" she asked in a soft voice as she began to roll the pewter cup between her palms as she avoided Booth's eyes. He saw her breaths begin to come faster as she sat, staring into her lap in silence.

"You know about that injury, yes?" Booth inquired, trying to keep his voice calm and gentle so as not to upset the young woman into either useless silence, or, more likely the painfully inane babble that he'd come to realize was her trademark.

After another moment of silence, Daisy sighed and then gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

"What did he tell you about it?" Booth asked her. "What was his explanation for how it happened?"

He saw her bite the inside of her lip before at last answering. She said in a quiet voice, "He told me he was in a tavern, enjoying his cups, when a man accosted him, and they began to fight. That the man who attacked him had a knife in his boot, and that in the course of that fight he—Michael, that is—was cut."

Booth took his usual place once more, leaning against the edge of the inquisitor's table. "Did—does—your husband often visit the taverns?"

"Yes," she said softly. "Quite often, I'm sorry to have to say. Even more so now than…than before."

Narrowing his eyes at her tiny revelation, Booth pressed. "Than before what?"

Her eyes suddenly welled up with tears and once more she looked away. "Before our son...that is, not the babe I most recently carried was lost, but before the first child I carried to term died." She stopped and then added quietly, "He was a beautiful, sweet boy, that one. My first baby. The one we named Benjamin. I wanted to call him Lance, and Michael wanted to name him after himself, but we argued so about it, that finally we compromised and named him Benjamin after Michael's father. We agreed the next ones would be Michael and Lance in turn."

"I'm sorry," Booth said quietly. "For the loss of your son."

"_Sons_," she whispered. "I've lost three, remember, Father. Three times I've carried sons, and all three of them have been lost. Poor, sweet little angels they all were. My dear Benjamin, my beloved Michael, and my sweet Lance." She blinked away a tear and shrugged, glancing into her pewter cup and murmuring at seeing it empty.

"I am sorry, Mistress," he said earnestly. "I-I…I, umm…" He hesitated. "I have just a few more questions which I must ask you. I know this is difficult for you, so if you'd rather we continue this another day, that's alright. It can be arranged…"

Daisy nodded sadly, then looked up into his warm brown eyes. "It's alright, Father," she said. "I take comfort in the fact that I know one day I'll see my boys again. And, until that day, I know my Lancelot is looking after them for me. So, please. Let us do what must be done. Go on, and ask your questions, so this can be finished, and I can go home. Please?"

Booth took a deep breath and thought back to what he had seen when he'd asked her husband to remove his shirt. He scratched his head and looked at the delicate young woman before him, who for all of the things he knew she had endured, seemed to have resilience far beyond her years. Pressing his lips together firmly as he formulated his next question, he watched her eyes dart around the room, narrowing and widening again as she turned something over in her mind.

"How long has it been that your husband has had those scars on his chest, back, and arms?" he asked, his voice even and deliberate as he spoke

"He has them all over, actually," Daisy blurted out, blinking as she realized what she had said after the words had already left her mouth. Seeing Booth's eyebrows raise up, she shrugged. "All over his legs and…" She blushed slightly. "Other parts, you know."

"Since when?" Booth asked, prompting her.

She looked up at the timbered ceiling and thought about it. "Hmmm…I'd say a half year now, maybe. I'm not entirely certain. It could be longer...maybe. It starts with a rash, you see, and the sores leave these scars behind." She sighed grimly. "He'd had this rash before—a different one, that came and broke out all over his body—maybe a year, fourteen months ago, but it went away again. Then, about a half year ago, he started to show another rash on his skin. That's the one that left behind the scars, Father."

"It's the pox," Booth said, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

"Yes," the young woman said solemnly. "I believe it is."

"And he passed it to you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even, despite the tightness in his throat and the anger he felt bubbling up again in his chest as he realized what Stires had done. "And you began to show signs of the pox around the time you became pregnant the third time? Is that correct?"

"Yes, Father," she replied, her voice heavy with shame. "I thought I was cursed, Father, damned somehow because I had given my virtue to Lance—you know, before we were married, but after we'd been betrothed. I mean, I know it was wrong, a sin to do it. And, I've since confessed and done penance for those sins. But, I wonder if I truly have received God's forgiveness since I don't regret doing what I did with Lance, because I loved him so much, and we wanted each other so, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat if I could, so really I'm only sorry that I did it because it was a sin…" Her voice trailed off and she rubbed her red-rimmed eyes with the back of her hand. "Anyhow, as I was saying, I'd come to be sure that all the woes that had befallen me with the loss of my children was because I had sinned against God by laying with a man before I was married So, you see—"

"No," Booth said to her, his voice strong and firm as he suddenly interrupted Daisy. "That's not true. God forgives sin if we have sorrow in our hearts for our transgressions, confess, and repent. He knows that not a single one of us is perfect, Mistress, and He expects us to sin since He gave us the gift of free will. So, these things that have happened to you—they haven't befallen you because of anything you did or didn't do to bring such sorrows on yourself. It was just a part of His will, His divine plan." He stopped and smiled at Daisy. "Do you understand?"

Daisy was quiet for a minute and then slowly nodded. "Yes, Father. I-I...I think so."

"Good," Booth sighed. "That's good." He took a deep breath, cocking his head to the side as he watched the sad young woman try to collect herself as she sat in the witness's chair. "I have one more thing I must ask you about, Mistress," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, but—"

"It's alright, Father," Daisy said with another weak smile. "What else can I tell you?"

"I know it seems uncouth to ask," Booth began with a frown, "but given the nature of the accusations your husband has laid against Mistress Brennan, I must ask—how long has it been since your husband bedded you?"

A faint smile flashed across Daisy's lips then vanished in an instant, lingering just long enough for it to register in Booth's mind. "How long since he has come to my bed attempting to bed me? Or how long since he has actually…well…done so?"

Booth raised an eyebrow at her wording. Daisy took it as a sign to continue..

"He last came to my bed about four months ago," she said with a flicker in her dark green eyes. "That was the last time he tried to bed me. He hasn't bothered since."

"What happened?" Booth asked, though he was fairly certain he knew the answer.

Daisy blushed and shrugged again. "He couldn't become roused enough to bed me," she said. "No matter what he tried, no matter what he did, it didn't matter. He couldn't become excited enough to, well...I'm sure you take my meaning?" She blinked at Booth, who, nodded in turn. "It was a sad occurrence for him," Daisy continued, "but one for which I was very glad."

Booth's eyes narrowed as he rubbed his hand on the back of his head as he tried to pull all the details together in a semblance of order in his mind. "When was the last time he actually bedded you?" he asked.

"I remember exactly," she answered flatly. "Four weeks before that."

"He forced you," Booth said. "That's why you remember, isn't it? He came to your bed when your body was still tender and weak from the loss of your pregnancy, didn't he? You told him no, but he would hear none of it, and forced himself upon you. Is that how it happened?"

Daisy's green eyes darkened as her cheeks flushed with shame and anger, her jaw hardening as she opened her mouth to reply. "Yes," she told him. "It is." She paused and then a flash of anger, the first strong emotion that wasn't related to sadness or guilt that Booth had seen shone in her eyes. "That bastard—he doesn't take the meaning of the word 'no'. He thinks when someone says no, especially a woman, that she really means yes. When he drinks, he's...he's miserably obtuse, Father." She fell silent for a moment, a private memory flashing before her eyes before she continued. "And, he gave me the pox, brought it home to our bed," she said, grinding out each word as she stared at the wall behind Booth. "I can't forgive him for that." She stopped and sighed as she said, "He wasn't always like this, you know. He's become a different man than he was when we first courted and married. We were so happy then. But, since...well, after we..."

He voice trailed off, as some of the anger dissipated from her bearing, as she drew a breath before she continued. "Pardon me, Father. That is, as I was saying, after we lost our son, Benjamin—the one born alive—he changed. Michael began to spend his evenings at the taverns, drowning his frustrations in his cups. He came to my bed less and less often after that. He was whoring, Father, and I knew it. I knew it, and I didn't really care because I was so sad at the loss of my sweet boy. So, when he first showed the rash, I told myself I was imagining things. Then it went away—the rash—and I was sure it was nothing. But, still he avoided my bed most nights. However, he did come to me from time-to-time, and I became pregnant again. That child, another son, was born dead. Then, though he still avoided my bed for the most part, he came to me again—forcing himself on me—and I became pregnant again. A few weeks after I became pregnant the third time, I was visited by the same sort of rash that he'd shown about a year earlier. When I lost that child, which child I'd gotten after he'd forced himself on me and given me the pox, I swore I'd never let him touch me again."

She covered her eyes with her hand and took a long, deep breath.

"In my grief and frustration, I-I...I'm not ashamed to confess that once...I...forgive me, Father, but I thought of killing him," she said quietly. "But then, I thought that even if I managed to not be hanged myself for the crime, I'd be a widow with the pox who'd lost three babies. Who would marry me? Who would support me? The answer is nobody. I'm not so young or pretty as I once was, and I know that. No one would want me...at least, no one who was worth having." Her eyes welled up with tears, one of which fell onto her cheek as she looked down into the cup that she still held on her lap. "I need his support, though I despise the man he's become, Father. So, I looked for a way that I could at least keep him from my bed."

"What did you give him?" Booth asked, as he suddenly realized what Daisy was trying to tell him. "You found a way to give something to him that rendered him impotent, didn't you? Is that it?"

Daisy stared at him, her eyes slightly flashing panic as she realized what she'd told him and that she'd reached a point of no return in the telling of it to him.

Reaching out, Booth placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder as said quietly, "It's alright, child. He's not dead. You've committed no crime yet. So, just tell the truth." Still Daisy was quiet for a moment, and Booth couldn't help but add, "Please, Daisy. Another woman's life hangs in the balance, having been accused of bewitching him. If it were that you gave something to your husband to make him this way, I can take your confession and you can be shrived of your sin. Your sins will be washed away by confession and penance, and the life of an innocent woman can be saved. Otherwise, she will hang on the gallows. So, please—help me. Help me to help her. Please."

He let his words linger in the air between them for a while before speaking again.

"What did you give to him?" he breathed.

Daisy swallowed once and then hesitantly asked, "If I tell you, you'll take my confession, and I can receive penance for my sin?" Booth nodded. "And, you won't tell Michael or the sheriff?"

Booth slowly shook his head. "The seal of the confessional is sacrosanct, Daisy. I swear. Michael or the sheriff will never hear of it from me."

"Okay," she breathed. "I-I...I gave him licorice root," she said with a small smile. "I know, it sounds strange. But I was in the apothecary's shop buying some other herbs, and I overheard the apothecary, who was selling some licorice root to another woman to soothe her husband's sour stomach, telling her to be careful not to give him too much lest he no longer be able to do his husbandly duties." She arched an eyebrow. "I knew then I had the answer to my little conundrum—well, at least insofar as I could keep him out of my bed and all of the diseased parts of his body out of mine. So, that's what I gave him. Licorice root."

"Licorice?" Booth asked, his brow creased with surprise.

Daisy nodded solemnly. "Yes, Father," she said. "Licorice. Good for sour stomachs, bad for stiff dicks." She covered her mouth with her hand when she suddenly realized what she'd said and to whom. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so vulgar or coarse. Please—accept my apologies, Father."

Booth smirked, a warmth spreading through his chest at the realization that he had obtained what he'd set out for, and that Brennan's freedom was within sight.

"It's not a problem," he said reassuringly. "Now, I can take your confession, Mistress, before you leave, if you wish it."

Daisy's smile was all the answer he needed.

Slowly, Booth raised his hand and made the sign of the cross, beginning the familiar penitential litany even as his heart started to swell with joy. _We've got them, Bren, _he silently thought. _We've got them._

For some reason, his next thought was of how to bring about a final act of retribution against Stires. Booth shook off the thought. _For everything there is a season, _he reminded himself. _But for now...there is only one thing that matters._

As he gazed into the eyes of the young penitent before him, his mind filled with thoughts of Brennan. _Soon, _he thought with a warm happiness spreading through his veins. _It'll be just like I promised, Bren. Soon, you'll be free. Soon._

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><p><strong>AN: **_So, now we know what happened. An angry, disgruntled and syphilitic Michael Stires levied false charges against the good Mistress Brennan after his wife, poor Daisy Stires, lost three babies, the last of which may well have miscarried on account of the disease he'd passed on to her. And his difficulties in bed? Well, he has only himself to blame for that, doesn't he? The swine._

_A lot of stuff happened in this chapter, we know. And, yes, yes—a certain something didn't happen in this chapter. Well, we hope you enjoyed it anyway. But we're feeling a little, hmmm, uncertain about that._

_We said this before, but "Inquisitor" is a very different kind of story than any of the other Bones fanfics that are posting right now. We've ripped our heroes out of their familiar context and thrown them into different occupations and into a different time and place. But because what we're doing is pretty out there in left field, we really need you folks to tell us what you think. It's really important to us. _

_So, please, go ahead and click that wee review button down there. Yeah, that big, sparkly bright blue one that the FFnet people decided to redesign after all of Dharmasera's lobbying for a more prominent review button._

_You know what to do and where to do it. Oh, please. Don't be coy. Yes, our darlings, that button right there._

_Thanks. You know we love you guys!_


	11. Trust and Faith

**The Inquisitor**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128  
><strong>Rated: <strong>M  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox by adverse possession. *blinks* Okay, not really. But, you get the gist.

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><p><strong>AN: **_Ladies and gents, we're on the downside of the mountain. We still have a few surprises left to dazzle you with, but we're not gonna say much more and will let you judge for yourselves._

**Unf Alert: **_This chapter contains moments of tingly unfness. Some of you will be disappointed by that. (Nah, probably not, but we needed to say it anyway, so we'd have some plausible deniability.) If you don't care to read about that sort of thing, then don't. If the foregoing doesn't apply to you, please proceed immediately to read this newest installment of what might just be the farthest-out-in-deep-left-field Bones fic to post in a long time._

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><p><strong>Chapter 11: Trust and Faith<strong>

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><p>Booth smiled into Brennan's hair as she nuzzled into the crook where his arm and shoulder met, a kittenish murmur warbling in her throat as she snuggled against him. The summer air was heavy and almost stifling, and though their bodies were covered with a layer of sticky sweat that stuck to one another in any place where his bare skin touched hers—admittedly, each of them more sweaty than could be explained by simply having to endure the heat of a warm summer night—they didn't mind as they basked in the feel of one another.<p>

After several minutes of contented silence, Brennan turned her head and looked up at him, a pleased smile softening her normally severe face. "Booth?"

"Hmmm?" came the hazy, gritty-voiced response.

"Just so you know," she replied. "That was—"

"Very enjoyable," he said, cutting off her sentence as he kissed her forehead gently and then snaked his arm around her waist, pulling her even more tightly against him.

Brennan was quiet for a few seconds. At last, she told him, "Well, yes, it was that, but..."

Booth's forehead creased as a flash of worry passed through him as he processed the meaning of her words. Sitting up a bit—at least, as much as he was able to with Brennan sprawled on top of him—he looked at her with apprehension clearly shining on his face. "But what?" he croaked. "Did you not—I mean, was it not...did you not enjoy it?" His voice wavered with uncertainty before he added, "Was it not...was I not pleasing to you?"

Brennan shook her head and wriggled out of his grasp as she sat up in bed and looked down at him with an arched brow. "You know," she said as she stared at it him intently. "It still amazes me that, even after you've bedded me probably two or three dozen times over the last month, you still have so little confidence in your skills." She paused, and then leaned in close to him to lightly brush his lips with hers. "You have _nothing _to worry about in _that _particular regard, Booth." Pausing again, she gave him another smile as she moved back and added, "Believe me, I'd be the first one to tell you if you did."

Flushing a bit at her words—both the very gentle rebuke and implied compliment—Booth stared at her for a long moment. Then, when he saw her staring at him with what he'd come to think of as her 'don't be silly' look, he began to laugh once more. Chuckling a bit, he said, "I suppose I _am _a bit self-conscious about it, but it's only because I'm used to being sure of my skills in almost every other facet of my life—whether saying mass, arguing in front of the curia or riding my horse. In all of those things, I always know _exactly _where I stand...but, with you—when I'm with you? I still am never quite certain what's happening or why or what will happen next, and it's all very bewildering to me. When I'm with you, I'm fine. However, when I'm by myself, and have even a single spare moment to start thinking about things, it makes me feel foolish, but I can't help it because the doubts start to creep in—"

She considered his words as he left his final thought unfinished. She then smiled again as she said, "Well, I can't speak to most of what you've just told me, but you must have faith in me when I do share this part, because, it comes to us bedding? Well..." Her grin grew wider as she chuckled. "I'm _very _satisfied with how things are between us. I'm quite pleased at what you've learned to do to me, with me, and how you make me feel. Even more importantly, I can't tell you how much amusement it brings me to see over and over again how you're such a constant surprise to me. And, that in and of itself, is a priceless gift since there are so few things in this world that surprise me in a pleasant way."

"Surprise?" he asked, curious as to what would specific thing about him would elicit those exact words from Brennan. "I'm not sure I take what you mean. How so?"

"Well," she laughed as she gestured at the small space that separated them. "Take tonight, for example."

"Right," he nodded, still not certain he was taking her meaning. "Mmmm...what about it?"

She blinked at him for a moment and then said, "Well, alright." She paused as she wondered whether she should explain or not, but as he looked at her with such heartfelt sincerity shining in his warm brown eyes, she knew she couldn't ever lie to him. Taking a deep breath, she began, "Well, it's just that..."

"What?" he asked, sensing her hesitation as she tried to explain something that she was obviously grappling with finding a way to convey the information to him. It made him wonder what topic could render such a normally blunt woman tongue-tied. "You know you can tell me anything, right, Bren?"

"I do," Brennan said as she reached out and laid a hand on his chest, lightly placing it over his heart to reassure him. "I do. It's just that—"

"Tell me," he said again, as he brought one of his own large hands up and covered her hand with his own. Giving her a slightly squeeze, he said, "Please? Tell me?"

Brennan, nearly undone by his gentleness, nodded as she took a breath, and then explained, "So, I'm only saying this since you asked why you amuse me because you do things I don't expect."

"Right," he nodded. "I know. So what is it?" He raised his eyebrows in expectation.

"Well, earlier," she nodded at him. "Well, it's just that...you've never taken me in such a..." She hesitated as she struggled for the right word. "Well—you've never been so rough with me before, and I have to admit your aggression surprised me a bit. I wasn't—"

"I'm sorry," he said instantly, feeling a flush of shame crash over him as he cut her off and let his hand fall away from hers, almost as if he'd been burned by her touch. Twisting away from her and sitting up fully, he hesitated for a minute before putting his hand on her shoulder, as he said softly, "I'm so sorry. I am...really. I didn't mean to...it just sort of happened."

He remembered how, just a little while earlier, he'd entered her cell, the same as he had so many nights over the prior month, and how he'd barely closed the door behind him with a hard shove of his sandaled foot before he'd more or less lunged at her, cupping her head between his hands as he covered her mouth with his, pressing against her lips as his impatient tongue demanded admission. He'd kissed her as hard then as he ever had before, his blood roaring in his ears as he felt her slender fingers press into his bony hip, squeezing rhythmically as his tongue laved the inside of her mouth. Moments later, starved for breath, they'd broken apart, and Booth had almost tore his robes off before lunging at her again, nearly tackling her on her low pallet as he peeled her thin linen shift off her body. He'd nudged her legs open with his forearms as he leaned over her, kissing her hard until they were both again left breathless, enjoying one last sweep of her mouth with his tongue as he grunted and entered her with a single firm, swift stroke.

As he began to run through what had just transpired in his mind, he paled a bit as he said, "I don't know what possessed me. I'm so very sorry, God, forgive me. But, please tell me that I didn't hurt you, because I don't know how I'll live with myself if I did. I never want to hurt you, Bren. Never." He then averted his eyes, and braced himself, almost waiting for her words as if he'd anticipated a heavy physical blow to land squarely on him when she finally spoke.

The concern that burned in his face made her heart burst as she saw him worry about what he had or hadn't done to her. Quickly, she reached forward and shook her head, "Booth—"

"What?" he rasped.

"Look at me," she demanded in a soft yet even voice. "Please?"

"I can't," he whispered. "Not if I hurt you, brutalized you, or—" Booth blushed at recalling how he'd pounded into her, his teeth gritted and each of his hard, driving strokes punctuated with a sound that fell somewhere between a grunt and a growl. He could feel his skin burning hot as his blood seemed to bubble with an aggression he had never, ever felt before. As he remembered jerking into her with every ounce of strength he could summon up, supporting his weight on one arm as he pinned her right thigh to the linen-covered straw mattress with the other, he felt as if he'd been a man possessed, his body energized the way he'd never felt it before. That energy had begun coursing through him in the last moments of his encounter with Michael Stires and a part of him felt immensely guilty that the aggression he'd built up in the course of talking with Stires had been expended, burned off in a sense, during his encounter with Brennan.

"Booth," Brennan said softly, as she reached out and slowly tilted his chin so that his sorrowfully contrite brown eyes reluctantly looked up to meet hers. "Please, don't," she told him.

"What?"

"Don't punish yourself," she said. "You did _nothing _wrong. And, as I've told you many times before, you didn't hurt me, so there's no need to apologize," she told him.

"Really?" he dared to breathe. "Are you certain?"

"Yes," she said. "Really." A crooked grin broke across her face as her eyes twinkled in the candlelight. "What's more, if I didn't want you doing to me anything that you were doing, I think we both know that I'd have no trouble stopping you. Besides—I rather enjoyed it, actually," she said, waggling her eyebrows. "I like that you've finally gained enough confidence to stop treating me like some delicate piece of fine Venetian glass. And, truth to be told, I wouldn't mind it if you came at me again like that the next time."

Booth's face flushed and his mouth broke into a lazy grin at hearing her words. _Really? _he thought, wincing slightly as he felt his balls hitch at the thought. His ears burned red as he pondered the notion of a woman like Brennan wanting to be taken in a rough, aggressive, dominating, almost animalistic way. He felt his mouth go dry at the possibility. Booth kneaded the inside of his lip between his teeth as he wondered if she would enjoy him nipping or biting at her skin as he rammed into her. Her words gave him nearly free license to try anything, knowing that if he crossed a line, she would be right there to let him know that he'd gone too far. _If I am not hurting her, or myself, but giving her great pleasure and taking some for myself, _he thought,_ then there's no harm in coming together this way. Not if she wants it, and I do, too. _His mind raced, the ideas and images tumbling through him like a rockslide. _And, I do want it. I want her, and it, and us together...in every way possible. I want it so much...so very, very much._

"Hmmm," he said. "Well, if you're certain about that—"

"Damn straight I am," Brennan muttered cheekily.

With a wink, he nodded and said, "Duly noted, then."

"Good," Brennan said as she smiled when she saw the earlier worry that had gripped him had fallen away. "Now, can I ask you about what happened that made you so...well, aggressive earlier, without you going to pieces in the giving of an answer to me?"

Quirking an eyebrow at her teasing, Booth gave her a mock serious look as he deadpanned, "It'll be difficult, but yes, I'll try to keep myself composed."

Rolling her eyes at him, she said, "Fine. Then, tell me—what got into you, anyway?" Brennan paused for a minute before she saw his eyes darken in anticipation of answering her question. Some of the teasing went out of her voice as she said quietly, "I mean, you came in here tonight like the Devil himself or...I don't even know what..." She cocked her head, and seeing the furrowing of his brow and the serious frown that marred his handsome face, she ached to reach out and touch him. Then, realizing that there was nothing to stop her from doing exactly that if that's what she wished to do, Brennan reached out and cupped his face with her hand, stroking her fingers over his stubbled jaw. "What happened today?"

Booth relished in the feel of her touch for a long moment. He then leaned his head to the side, gently pinning her hand between his face and shoulder before releasing it. He drew a long sigh, running his hand through his sweaty hair and looked into her pale eyes once more before answering. "You're innocent," he said. "I mean, of course, I've known for a while now that you're innocent of the charges of sorcery and witchcraft, but, Bren―now..._now_ I have the proof. I can _prove _you're innocent."

Brennan shook her head and sat up straighter in bed, leaning her back against the wall as she looked at him. "I don't understand," she said quietly. "What do you mean?"

"She admitted it, Bren," he said. "Daisy Stires admitted that she's been giving licorice root to her husband in copious enough quantities that..." Booth grinned awkwardly. "Well, enough of it that he couldn't perform his duties as a husband. Which is exactly what she wants. After all of his whoring, giving her the pox, and how he's taken to having her whether she was willing or no—the violence of it all, when combined with all of the issues surrounding her pregnancies and..." He paused, a moment of sadness washing over him as he thought about the young woman. "And the loss of her children...well, umm...after all of it, she doesn't want him coming near her bed and so she finally decided to do something about it." He stopped for a minute and then said, "I'd intended on telling you all of this earlier—as soon as I came to see you. But, uhhh, I sort of got carried away a bit when we...err, I...well you know." He sheepishly grinned at her as he inclined his head. "When I kissed you hello, I kinda got more distracted than I thought I would, and it sorta just slipped my mind."

Brennan arched her eyebrow at him as she asked, "You forgot, hmmm?"

"Well, yeah," he chuckled. "I was a bit...distracted, if you recall."

"Yes," she laughed, recalling that she hadn't had more than a moment's notice of her lover's arrival before he'd pounced upon her with passionate abandon...and how, when he'd begun to kiss her so fervently, that any thoughts or questions beyond what he was doing to her body at that very moment had gone straight out of her head. "I suppose we both were." She then thought about his earlier words and asked, "Hmmm? Licorice root, did you say?" Booth nodded his head. Brennan sat back and quietly considered his response. "That would work," she said after pondering the idea for a couple of minutes. "Heavy doses of licorice root do have medicinal qualities, it's true. My father's often prescribed them for a number of conditions, most often to help someone ill with a lingering cough. But, if the proper dosages aren't observed, it can also be toxic. I've heard of cases when the consumption of too much licorice puts the body's humors out of balance, and for a man, such an imbalance could make him impotent. And since licorice is so sweet, the taste of it can be pleasant and easily hidden in other foods and drinks." She nodded to herself. "Yes, I think—if her goal was to keep Michael Stires and his distasteful rutting away from her bed, that certainly would be a very excellent way to do it."

Booth raised an eyebrow. "You know...it only bothers me slightly," he chuckled, "that you know so much about the taste of toxic herbs and how to conceal them."

Brennan narrowed her eyes and wagged her finger at him in a silent, teasing warning. "Perhaps you should be more worried than you are."

He closed one eye and looked at her with mock skepticism. "Indeed?" he asked. "Is this how you intend to keep me in line, Mistress? God forbid I fail to please you in some way. I may wake up with itchy feet, a purple tongue and dilated pupils, all because I crossed you in some unspecified way."

She pursed her lips to bite back a laugh. "You better do your best to please me, then, hmmm?" she said with a faint snicker as she gave him a very heavy-lidded look. "Lest you end up back in the infirmary with that phlebotomist monk and his creepy apprentice."

"Hmm," Booth said with a scrunched-up nose. The entire experience in the infirmary still sent a shiver up his spine at the thought of Brother Paul approaching with his lancet-like fleam and shiny bowl.

"Don't worry, Booth," she said. "The last thing in the world I'd feed you is licorice. I'm not that daft." She stopped and then gave him a completely deadpanned look. "If I wanted to keep you from being able to bed me—although I can't imagine a time when I'd ever see _that _desire ever coming to pass on my part—I'd use something that no one's ever heard of..."

"You've given this some thought then?" he asked with an arched eyebrow.

"I'm afraid I can't confirm or deny that statement with any type of specific response," she blinked at him. However, just as she saw a flash of worry cross across his face—so minute that it lasted only for the briefest of seconds— she smiled at him as she she let some of her teasing creep into her voice as she said, "I've thought about it enough to know that I wouldn't use licorice. Hmmm?"

"Good," he laughed. "Because I've recently remembered I have a distinct dislike of licorice, you know. It's used to make a liquor in Italy called _sambuca_. I knew a Dominican brother when I was in Rome who drank the stuff like water, though I never recalled him ever complain of any adverse effects." Booth paused with lopsided grin. "Then again, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there, does it make a sound?"

Brennan blinked at him again, Booth started to chuckle, and then the two of them dissolved into a fit of laughter so hearty that their eyes began to water before Brennan shushed them lest their noise draw unwanted attention. "Enough," she whispered. "Wouldn't it be ironic," she said after a minute, gasping for breath, "If we're finally found out not from sounds we've made as we've bedded, but because you're making me laugh with your bad jokes."

"Oh, come on, Bren," he gave her a teasing look. "That one wasn't _that _bad."

Shaking his head as his laughter faded away, Booth wiped the moisture from his eyes as his mind returned to the more serious issue at hand, and his facial expression grew more somber as he remembered the conclusion of his second interview with Daisy Stires.

"You know...Daisy? She confessed to doing this, Bren," he said with a nod. "She told me, first, of course, before I heard her confession. That's why, since she told me before the wording of the ritual invoked the seal of the confessional, I can tell you this now. Each of the accusations that has been laid against you and attributed to witchcraft―that you caused Michael Stires to be unable to perform as a man, and that you caused the death of his issue―all can be explained to have occurred due to causes not within your control."

As Booth spoke, Brennan was almost too afraid to ask the question that was on the tip of her tongue. She was afraid, that despite the fact that she knew Booth would keep his promise to help her, something unexpected would happen to take away the vision of happiness that dangled in front of her in the form of her freedom. At last, she knew she couldn't let the question remain unanswered any longer. She took a breath, trying to harden her resolve before she spoke. Booth watched her with a curious look even as she finally opened her mouth to speak. "So...what happens now?" Brennan asked him.

Booth looked at her for a minute as he watched her tuck a strand of her sweat-damp hair behind her ear, which almost demure gesture drew his attention to the place where her earlobe met her jaw. Over the course of the prior month, he had discovered all sorts of little places that had previously held no interest whatsoever for him, but after feeling how she responded when he touched, nipped, or licked such places, he could no longer look on these parts of her without thinking of the way she purred when he touched her there. His gaze flitted from her ear to her pale eyes and back again, his straight-lipped expression breaking into a crooked grin.

"Well," he said in a low, velvet-like voice, reaching up and placing his hand on her slender shoulder. "First, I think I'd like to see if I can please you again by way of celebrating since it's still some time before I must go."

"Oh?" Brennan asked with her eyebrow arched at him. "Would you now?"

"Yeah," he nodded, his voice already growing a bit more gravelly as he smiled at her. "And I think you would, too."

"Maybe," Brennan said. "But, if we do anything more, you can't fall asleep again afterwards." Her brow furrowed a bit at her recall of one night the prior week that she'd sworn had probably taken at least five years off of her life. "Remember? Last week? We can't do that again, Booth."

"You're right," he said with a sigh. "That was a bit too much of a close call even by my standards."

"And, it all started when you fell asleep the last time after...well, after we fell into bed on the second go. Then, when you were sleeping, I started to doze, and we're damn lucky that one of us woke up when we did so that you could manage to get out of here before Angela arrived with my breakfast tray."

"Something tells me the young Mistress Angela's sensibilities wouldn't be entirely shocked to find me here, only that she'd be upset that you were the beneficiary of my attentions and not her," he said. Brennan shot him a glare, that he took some pleasure in seeing as he chuckled with a shake of his head. "Oh, come on, Bren. That young woman's been making eyes at me since I got here some months ago. She likes me, I think. She and the cook, Mistress Bernadette, are always seeing to it that I get an extra helping of whatever's for supper and asking me what my favorites dishes are. And, then, surprise...the next day. Guess what shows up as the choice du jour for dinner or dessert?"

Brennan narrowed her eyes. "So that explains how you so quickly put back on the weight you lost when you were sent away to the infirmary," she said. "But, Booth, you know that's the last thing we need is to be discovered. I'm surprised we haven't been caught already. So I'm serious—you can't fall asleep this time."

"I know," Booth nodded. "Believe me, I know. But, honestly—and I'm not just saying this, despite what you may think—I think I can safely say that I've got no intention of celebrating your impending freedom by sleeping. I'd much prefer using this bed for something a bit more...well, something that will require me to go to confession straightaway, but only if you're interested, that is." He grinned and flashed his eyebrows suggestively.

Brennan couldn't help herself as she felt her heart flutter a bit at the rather debonair side of Booth's personality that had been revealed to her in the weeks since they'd come to know one another so intimately. "When am I _not _interested in that, hmmm?" she murmured as she leveled a rather heavy-lidded gaze at him.

"Point taken," Booth chuckled. "So, what say you to us pushing anything but what exists between you, me, and this bed here out of our minds for the time being? Because, all too soon you know I'll have to take my leave of you so I can finish preparing that written report of my findings for His Eminence, the Archbishop, that I've begun."

"And, what will you include in that report's final draft?" Brennan couldn't help but ask even as she became rather distracted by the way Booth's tongue kept darting out from his mouth to wet his lips.

"Well," Booth said, looking away from her for a moment as he thought threw an answer to her question out loud. "I've already talked to Daisy, and she's given me permission to include what she told me in her confession in my report to Cardinal Pole, provided I don't use anyone's real names and change some of the more specific details that could identify her in the report. It won't be any significant changes that will weaken the strength of the evidence she's given me against her husband. And, then, at the very end...well, my official recommendation as the Inquisitor charged with trying your case is that you be freed due to a lack of credible evidence that proves you're guilty of witchcraft. Then, after Cardinal Pole acts on my recommendation, which I know he will, you'll be freed."

"Freed?" she asked, tilting her head as she leveled her gaze at him, saying the single word almost as if it were a foreign word with which she was completely unfamiliar instead of it being the simple word in her native tongue.

"Yes," Booth nodded solemnly. "Freed."

She was quiet for a minute, obviously surprised as if the words Booth had just spoken were only now registering in her mind. "I'll be free?" she dared to breathe.

He could only nod again as he realized her disbelief might take a bit of time to change given the several months of incarceration she'd endured at the hands of the Church.

Brennan took a moment to think about what he'd just told her, reflecting on the same answer that he'd given to the same question that she'd asked twice, just to be sure she hadn't misunderstood him. Then, slowly, she exhaled a long and deep breath. Looking away from him, a spot on the far side of her spartan cell suddenly became extremely interesting to her, even though she'd spent countless hours staring at every inch of her room without having found anything particularly engrossing about the spot before Booth had spoken.

At last, she turned to look at him and said honestly, "I know I should be happy—that is, with this news...what you've told me. I know that because it means I can go back to my family, to my life, to the way things were before I came to this place. I'll be free...finally free. It means I can leave this place and never have to think of my imprisonment again, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does," he agreed, each syllable falling slowly from his lips as he studied her face. "You'll be able to go home, Bren."

"But—" her voice caught in her throat as she spoke. "Once I leave...this thing that's happened between you and me...what will happen to it? Happen to us? Because, I'm not certain I never want to think of my imprisonment again if it means I can't think of you, Booth. Of us...together...what we've said and done and felt here, together. I don't want to forget that. It's...I'm not certain at what point it happened, but somehow...someway, you've become too important to me. What we have...I don't want to let it go, Booth."

"Bren, look—" Booth suddenly fell silent as he watched her face pale and her forehead crease. Her words echoed in his mind.

"_I don't want to let it go..."_

He felt his skin flush at hearing her words, and he leaned in close, placing his hand on hers and squeezing lightly. His heart began to pound hard in his chest as he felt a sense of panic creep over him. He'd been so single-minded in his focus on attaining her freedom that he'd given no thought to the life that would—or even could—exist for them on the other side of it. Suddenly, in that moment as he felt a sinking sensation in his gut, the distant possibility loomed immediate, and he felt lightheaded at the thought of it. "Bren, I—"

Suddenly, she cut him off as she began to speak in a quick tear. "Listen, Booth. I know...I know we've avoided speaking of the future until now. And, until I knew what my fate would be, I was content to enjoy only what we could steal to share with one another in the here and now. I never even dreamed of being greedy for tomorrow when I was so happy just to have today. But...now, if what you say is true—"

"It is," he interrupted her, a bit of a pain twisting in his gut even as he knew there was still the part of her that had been battered by this experience—that part of her that she kept hidden away from everyone else and never showed anyone lest her vulnerability be used against her—that she still feared that he might find some new way to hurt her. "You know I don't lie, Bren. I meant what I said. You'll be free by this time next week, if not sooner. I swear it."

"Of course," she quickly assured him. "I know that. It's just...my feelings?" She waited at him until he meet her piercing gaze with his own assertive glance. "You understand...I-I...I feel a great amount of anxiety at the present moment, not because I don't think you'll keep your word to me, and that I'll be freed. I know you will. I trust you and what you've said. If you say I'll be free, then I know it. I'll be free. I know it to be just as honest and true a statement as anything you've ever told me. So, I don't doubt that, and I don't doubt your efforts on my behalf to secure my freedom. My anxiety...it doesn't come from my fear of not being free."

"Then, what is it?" he asked, his brow knit low over his eyes as he struggled to sort through the swirl of emotions that roiled in his belly. He sat back and waited expectantly for her to speak, though he had an idea of what she was going to say. "Tell me, please," he said, swallowing the hardening lump in his throat. "Tell me."

Brennan saw the impassioned sincerity shining in his deep brown eyes and then nodded, opening her mouth to ask the question that she knew needed to be asked by one of them, even if the answer might bring them substantial pain. "If I'm freed and allowed to walk out those doors...is it finished between us? Is...whatever it is that's been...that is, this thing we share, between us...once I leave, does that mean it's over? Is it done?"

Booth suddenly felt as if a heavy weight had been placed on his shoulders—he was reminded of the time he tried on his father's shirt of chain mail, and how surprised he'd been to discover how suffocatingly heavy it was—and he felt his breathing becoming more labored as his mind searched for an answer to her question. _All I wanted to do was set her free_, he thought. _For weeks, that's all that mattered, all I thought of_—_working during the days like a madman to figure out what had happened and how to prove her innocence so that I could keep my word to her and make certain she was treated fairly. _ He felt his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. _Well...that and seeing to it that I could spend every free minute that I could steal away to be with her. I focused my mind on doing what I could in the present, to setting her free, and finding happiness in her. I-I...I didn't think about the future...how it would look for us or what our options might be. Damn it. I was a fool not to think of this before, wasn't I? A young lovesick puppy whose foolishness we shall now both have to confront. Damn it._

He looked down at his lap, swallowed and brought his gaze up to meet hers again. "Do you want this thing between us to..." He paused, struggling to find the right words. "Would you be pleased if it were over? Or...do you want...that is, what we have...do you want it to continue after you're free?"

He reached for her hand and clasped it between both of his, bringing it up to his mouth and brushing his lips across her knuckles. He squeezed her hand in his, closed his eyes and kissed her thumb. After a moment, he opened his eyes again and looked into hers, sparkling as they did in the flickering candlelight.

"Because...I don't know a lot of things in this world, Bren," he said. "But I do know what _I _want. And speaking for myself alone, I know...I've known for a while now that I don't want this to be finished, Bren, this thing between us. I mean, damn, I don't even know what it is, but if whatever it is means that by ending it, I can't keep you in my life, then I can't think of a moment when I'll ever want it to end. I don't want to give you up. Not now. Not ever. I want you. You know that, don't you? I want you, and I'll always want you. But..." His voice trailed off as a slight frown came over his face. "This isn't just about what I want. What do you want, Bren? Do you still want me? Do you still want us?" He raised his eyebrows and waited expectantly for her answer. He saw his uncertainty cause her to waver slightly, and so he added reassuringly, "Whatever it is, it's okay. You can tell me." He stopped, took a heavy breath, and then looked away as he said, "Even if you think what you need to tell me will hurt me, it's okay, Bren. You don't...that is, I'd understand it if you wanted to put the horrors of the past ten weeks behind you, and never think of me again—"

"No," she whispered, a bit of frustration creeping into her voice as she chided him as gently as she could. "Stop that. You're not listening to me, Booth."

"What?" he asked, a bit taken aback by her admonition.

"I already told you," she said, softening her voice as she smiled tenderly at him. "You're important to me. I want you. I'll always want you. Not everything that's happened to me over the last few months has been a bad thing. In a lot of ways, you coming into my life as you did has almost made everything I've gone through worth the suffering I've endured." She hesitated for several long moments as she studied his half-illuminated face. "It's just...once I leave here, how would this work?" she finally said. "You'd keep me...as what? Your mistress?"

"I don't know, Bren," he admitted. "You know what I am. My profession and my calling...I've never hidden that from you. And, before you, I've never..." He turned away and stared into the flickering light of the candle that burned on her tiny table. "I've never thought I'd ever have to even consider what I would do if I...if I found myself in this situation...that is...well...embracing the affections of a woman. I mean, it's not like I'm not aware that such things exist. I just never thought that I would ever...well, I'd be lying if I said that I haven't met priests and bishops and cardinals that keep families even as they contravene their sacred vows. Although it's not as common here in England, on the continent it's rampant—particularly in Italy."

A faint smile curved the corners of his mouth as he continued. "It's even said that the Holy Father himself held off being ordained once elected pope because he wanted to continue his elicit affairs. It's well-known that his sister Guila Farnese was a longtime mistress of Alexander VI. And, by all accounts, His Holiness is more discreet than his predecessors because he only broke his vows before he accepted the throne of St. Peter's. I remember, one time, when I was visiting the Vatican a few years ago, during the papacy of Julius III, the Venetian ambassador—who's the greatest gossip in all of God's green earth, in case you ever find yourself in Rome and need to know whom to turn to to find out the most deliciously interesting rumors—said that Julius himself bedded a male cardinal on a regular basis. And, now, there are even rumors that Cardinal Giovanni Medici, a very powerful member of the conclave who holds much influence, keeps his mistress and bastard children ensconced in his villa in Rome for all to see. So, it's not like I'd be the only priest who's broken his vows because of the temptations of the flesh on a repeated basis...but, I want to be better than that. I-I just...if we could find some way...I-I..."

His voice trailed off as he sighed heavily. "I don't know what to do here, Bren. I know only that I don't want to give up what we have, but that I'm not sure how to keep it, to protect it...how to keep us together and safe and happy." He swiveled his head back to look at her beautiful face. "I know I want to, but I don't know how."

Several long moments of silence hung between them before Brennan spoke at last. "Yes," she agreed. "Booth, I know. I've...despite how I've tried not to overthink things, it's been very difficult for me. Who...or, rather, what you are...I know what you are. It's never far from my mind. But, even more importantly than that...I know what it means. I know that it means your life is not your own...your wants and needs cannot be your own because I know you're a good man and wouldn't flaunt your sins in God's face. You're many things, but I know you not to be a hypocrite. But, I think...like you, I know I want to keep this thing between us—even though I'm not quite certain what _it_ is—I want to keep it in my life and protect it, but I don't have any answers for you. I just have more questions, because...if we continue things, where does that leave me, Booth? Where does the want of not giving me up fit in your world?"

Booth sat back in the bed, drew his legs up toward his chest and braced his arms over his knees. He took a long, deep breath and glanced away, letting his eyes linger on the dancing flame of the candle on the table near the door. "I don't know," he said quietly, sighing before turning his gaze back to Brennan. "I was a boy when I was sent away from home, given into the Church's keeping. The Church is all...the only life I know." He chewed the inside of his lip for a moment, then continued. "Well, that is, it was the only life I knew before I met you. It's...well..." Reaching up and scratching the back of his head, he rolled his lips together in a firm line and swallowed hard as he tried to find the words to express himself. "The life I had before you, Bren, I can't go back to it. It doesn't exist anymore, not for me. Even if I wanted to, I'm not certain that I could go back to it...back to how things were? I just don't think...that is, I can't, because I'm starting to realize that I'm not the same man I was before. And that's because of you, because of us. And I-I...I want a life with you, I do. I'm just not sure how to..." He shook his head and brought his eyes up to meet hers. "I'm not sure how that can be done..."

Booth closed his eyes and was reminded of the saying, '_Tu es sacerdos in aeternum_' ('You are forever a priest'). The vows he took when he was ordained at seventeen were sealed into his soul by the Holy Spirit. Even if he were to be released from his vows, he knew, there was no way to undo that seal. _But this thing that has been given to me, _he thought, _was given to me by God Himself, wasn't it? And since God doesn't make mistakes, I-I...God has led me all of my life, and I have always walked the path He's laid before me. I've never doubted His plan for me before, I just...oh, God. Help me. Please._

"I just don't know, Bren," he said in low voice. "I'm sorry. I wish I knew the answer."

She stopped and then shook her head. Sighing, she said, "I'm sorry. This...this isn't a topic of conversation that lends itself to a festive, celebratory mood, does it?"

Booth blinked and felt the dampness in his eyes as his nostrils burned. "I suppose this conversation was inevitable," he said gravely. "Would that I were not what I am, I wouldn't be facing the apparent choice that stands before me—because we both know this can only go one of two ways, Bren...if we're to find some way to be with one another."

"Yes," she nodded, her voice soft. "I know."

Even as she told him that she knew of what he spoke, Booth knew he needed to speak the words. "I can't leave you, so that means that...I can only renounce my vows and leave my avocation...or, well, as you said, to take you as my mistress, which I don't think I could ever ask of you. I-I...I've seen how the mistresses of such men are treated. It's a life full of slanderous whispers and hurtful ignominy and shameful ridicule. It's dishonorable, and I won't do that to you. Moreover, that's not something that I want for you, so I could never ask you to bear such a stigma on my behalf. But, perhaps...maybe there's something that we haven't thought of. I guess there's a third way. A third option would be to run away, to find a place in this country where no one knows either of us, but to do this would take you away from the life you've built for yourself, and from your family, and I can't ask you to—"

"No," Brennan said sharply, even as she saw him start to punish himself even as he struggled to find a solution to their problem. "It's alright, Booth. Just...stop, please?"

"But, Bren—"

"No," she repeated. "I shouldn't have even brought it up. It's fine," Brennan finally managed to say, quickly waving him off. "I shouldn't be wasting what little time we have to enjoy with one another by making us concentrate on such unpleasant matters. I'm sorry. I was foolish to even bring it up."

"No," he whispered, leaning forward and reaching for her hand. "Bren, please don't—don't apologize because you're right. We have to speak of this. We probably should've discussed it long ago, it's just that in the newness of everything...and being consumed with trying to find a way to free you, I was content to let the matter rest." He stopped, giving her a smile, then said, "But look. We didn't think we'd find a solution to the charges against you, and as insurmountable as that challenge seemed to be only a week ago, look at it now? Together, we did what needed to be done. We found a solution to that problem, just like we will for this larger issue that must be resolved between us, hmmm? I know it, Bren. In my heart, I know we can—you and me together? We'll find a way."

"Booth," she whispered, her voice betraying the hope that she desperately wanted to believe him, but was still afraid to do so lest she be disappointed once again. "I want to believe you. I do, I swear I do. But...what—what if we can't? What if there isn't a solution to be found to this problem that ends with us being happy and together and free? What if...what if we fail? What if we just aren't meant to be together?"

"No," he said, firmly rejecting the mere mention of the possibility she'd just raised. "I don't believe that, and I know you don't either. That's just fear...insecurities spurned on by the Devil talking. Don't do it, Bren. Don't give into the temptation of hopelessness and despair. Because I know, I _know_, in my heart, what we feel for each other is good and pure and wouldn't have come about unless God Himself had some greater plan for us. So, there is a solution. There is some answer to this problem. We just have to find it. So, what if..." He rolled his lips together in a firm line as he felt a wave of self-loathing pulse inside of him. "What we can do from this point forward is find some type of solution that is honorable and right and—" He fell silent for a moment. "Bren, do you want me?"

"Of course," she responded instantly. "I do. Very much so. But, you know that already."

"No," he said shaking his head at her. "Of course I know you want me. But what I meant was...if I weren't a priest—and could be with you...if I was free to _really _be with you? Would you...would you want to be with me?"

"I-I...I don't know," she finally managed to say. "I honestly don't know how to answer that question. It's contingent on so many things...and so many variables, I wouldn't even know where to begin to know how to start the process that would eventually let me answer that question." She let out a huff of air, some of the frustration she felt at the entire situation escaping from her lips in that single expulsion of air. After a minute, the touch of hesitancy that had colored her voice was gone. In its place, a slightly wistful tone manifested itself as she asked, "Besides, what does it even matter? As you said, you are what you are. There's nothing that we can do to change that. So, we must cope and find another way to solve our dilemma."

Booth growled and covered his face with his hands. "It needn't be this way—it _wasn't _always this way," he muttered. His lips moved for several moments as he murmured something unintelligible to himself, then he looked up at her again. "I suppose it doesn't matter, after all, but there's no reason that it had to be this way. Not all that long ago—just a few centuries, really, the Church wasn't so stringent as it's become in recent times about clerical marriages, particularly...in the Celtic countries, that is, where Christian converts cleaved to some old traditions even as they embraced the new ones. In Ireland, for example, it wasn't that unusual for priests to take wives and have children. There are Irish surnames, like McTaggart, McNab and McAnespie, that mean 'son of the priest,' 'son of the abbot' and 'son of the bishop,' respectively." Booth raised his eyebrows and smiled. "I swear it's true—I shared a room with another man, a Dominican brother from Cork named Conal, and he told me all this. But, so that all changed, you see, when it came to be that these churchmen would die and bequeath church lands and property to their children instead of leaving it with the parishes, abbeys and dioceses, thus impoverishing the church in these already poor corners of the continent. And so it was, in the First Lateran Council in the year of our Lord 1123 and some years later, the Second Lateran Council in 1139, that was eventually decided that all priests had to take a vow of celibacy and perpetual chastity. It is these canons, promulgated by the Church four hundred years ago, that some in the Church wish to nullify and have been debating at Trent in the wake of the critiques of the reformers. It..."

Booth shook his head, stopping in mid-sentence, and then let out another grunt of frustration.

"What does it matter anyway?" he asked with a deeply-creased brow. "Complaining about the rules or suggesting that there's anything I can do to challenge them is just pissing in the wind, isn't it?" He sighed heavily less to let Brennan know how he felt than to let some of his rapidly increasing ire manifest and dissipate.

Feeling sympathetic, Brennan reached out and tried to soothe him. "You're right," she agreed. "So, let's think practically then, alright? The simple fact at the heart of this matter is this—as long as you and I are here, in the same place at the same time, then between the two of us, we'll find some way to make this thing between us work. We'll find the answer to our problem—I know we will."

"But?" Booth asked, sensing the condition that always seemed to appear hanging faintly on the edges of her words, coloring an otherwise optimistic declaration.

"But," Brennan nodded, her voice straining a bit as she stated the obvious. "That only works so long, as I said, if we're in the same place. We can find a solution, I know, if we're together, but if we're not, well..." She paused, pursing her lips together to keep her own emotions at bay. "If we must part, I'm not sure how things will fall out between us. So, my next question to you is—to your knowledge, once my case is done, will...will you remain in London? In England, even? Or, will you be ordered elsewhere? Because...if you're here...as I said, it gives us options."

Booth straightened his back and took a deep breath. "I've been appointed to the office of Inquisitor, and was brought back to England at the personal and direct request of the Archbishop of Canterbury," he said. "He asked me to come here for the very reason that I'm an Englishman. He called me here, well, not just because I am an excellent canon lawyer, among the best north of the Alps..." Booth narrowed his eyes and shot her a cocky, self-assured grin. "You know, not just that, but because, being of this country, I know the people and the culture here, unlike my brethren from other places who, no matter how long they sojourn here, will always be foreign to our ways. The Archbishop knew that, if the Church's efforts here had any hope of being successful, it must be an effort led by Englishmen, not by an army of hated foreigners, since the local feeling already runs so high against them and has only gotten worse in the days since the Queen married Philip of Spain. They hate Italians, Germans, and Spaniards, working at the behest of a master in Rome, so—" He fell silent for a moment, then continued. "You understand what I mean, right?"

Brennan nodded silently.

Booth continued, "I have every reason to believe that I'll be kept here, in this very house, and assigned to the same duties that I have fulfilled for the last month and a half."

"So," she said, her voice still soft. "That's good then, right? Because it means...if you _are _here, well, that is—"

"Bren," he smiled as he sensed that, in somehow, he was somehow making her unduly nervous, and her found her nervousness entirely adorable given how confident she normally was in all other things in her life. "What are you trying to ask me?"

"Well, I know you've said that you want me, and that...together? We'll surely find a way to solve our problem together." She gave him a brave smile. "But, I was just wondering...until we find a permanent solution, would your conscience...wants aside, would you...would you be able to make your peace with seeing me when we could arrange it?" she asked in a very soft voice.

Booth squeezed her hand in his. "Yes," he said. "I-I...I can't imagine myself feeling content without being able to see you." He smiled, licking his lips as his eyes skimmed the outline of her face. "You may not have bewitched me, woman, but somehow you've become woven into my life to such an extent that it seems strange to think back to the life I had here in London before you. I won't do without you...even for a short while. I can't. I just don't think I know how anymore."

"You can't do without me? Really?" she asked, a glint coming to her eyes. "Or, is it, more precisely the fact that I provide you with the option to regularly bed someone, hmmm?"

Wincing at her words, he looked away and rolled his eyes. "It's not that," he said in a gravelly voice, turning back to face her. "It's not just that, and you know it. If all I wanted was to rut with some wanton wench, I could have found a thousand such women trolling the alehouses and taverns of this city. It's not that. It's always something more than that between us, Bren, and you know that to be true. I think—what we have? It's very special...so rare, and so very special. Don't...don't you think?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I do. What you've said is true enough. More than true, even." She was quiet for a minute, and then with a sly gaze, smiled at him as she continued, "So, I suppose once I'm freed we'll arrange the occasional appointment to see one another and talk and reminisce and perhaps just debate philosophy. Aquinas, maybe?"

"Is that what you want?" he asked, his teeth gritted and a slight growl rumbling on the edge of his voice as he struggled to understand why she was teasing him. "Come on now. I've spent a lifetime denying _my _wants, Bren, sure. But now? After everything we've shared? I know I what I want. But what do you want, when you are free?" Booth narrowed one eye and looked at her with a crooked grin. "Hmmm? Tell me, why don't you. Because I think we both know what it is that you want...who you want."

"You're a very learned man," she said with a face completely devoid of emotion. "I've greatly enjoyed our discussions. I would miss them if they ceased."

"You're teasing me, woman," he said. "But you know this...this thing we have had...it was more than just bodies and sweat, right? We _have _enjoyed discussions. You must know that the first thing about you that fascinated me was your mind, the way you think, and the way you talk." He shrugged, letting his eyes skate along the line of her shoulders and collarbone, which were illuminated by the dim light of the moon shining through her cell window and the even-dimmer light of the candle in the corner. "The way you challenged me from the very beginning," he added with a grin. "Everything else followed from that, methinks."

Brennan considered his words and then nodded her head. "Thank you," she smiled at his compliments. "And, you're right. I _am _teasing you...because you need to be teased, I think—desperately and very, _very _often."

"You kill me, woman," he growled with a vague smile. "Please. Stop teasing me. This is a serious matter—a serious issue you've raised. I need...I-I need you to give me an answer. One that's straight, simple, to the point, and leaves no doubt in my mind where I stand with you so that we can, together, begin to know how to work on this issue of ours...for the future, right? _Our _future."

Brennan studied his serious face, and then some of the teasing disappeared as she nodded. "Very well. What would you know?"

Booth opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated, his mouth hanging open as he narrowed his eyes and glanced over once more to the flickering taper as he gathered his thoughts. "If I remain here in London, as is my intent and expectation, and if I remain a priest, which is my only option at this point, having taken sacred vows from which I cannot absolve myself even if I wanted to, would you be willing...or dare I say even be interested...in continuing to let this thing that has happened between us to unfold...at least, until we can find some other workable solution to our situation?" He shook his head, as he suddenly felt as if they'd somehow ended up speaking in very large and repetitive circles. "What do you want, Bren? Tell me. Whatever it is, and I'll give it to you. Just tell me. What do you want from me?"

The words tumbled from her mouth as his question, at last, became easy for her to answer. "I-I want...I want there always to be honesty between us," she began. "And, although I know it will never be easy, I would want there always to be an agreement that we would do what we can to please the other. I would...I would never have either of us cause the other pain or uncertainty or doubt. I would have us take what pleasure and contentment where we can, when we can in the times we can share with one another. I would...I would have us take things as they come. And I want you to have trust and faith in me...just as I believe I already do for you. That—"

Thinking back on her words, Brennan felt a bloom of confidence unfurl in her chest as she nodded and smiled at him.

"That's what I want from you, Booth," she said. "Now, the next question is...can you give all that to me?"

"I think we both know I've already started to," he said quietly. "I do have trust and faith in you, Bren," he whispered, stroking his thumb over the top of her hand which he still held clasped tightly in his own. "I always have," he added solemnly. "If I didn't trust you, and have some generous measure of faith that you would never do me harm, I never would've come to you in the first place, that night. You...you remember?"

"Hmmmm," Brennan said again, a bit of mischief coming into her eyes. Her fingers snaked out as she leaned closer to him and, reaching between his legs, which lay slightly parted, took him loosely into her hand. "That wouldn't be the night you came to me because you were going out of your mind, was it? You had some difficulty, I recall, that centered...here." She punctuated her statement with a pointed look. "Something about being driven so mad that it was causing you pain?"

"Yes," he said quietly as his jaw tightened at feeling her fingers touch him intimately again. "Yes," he sighed, closing his eyes to focus as best he could on what he wanted to say to her, despite what she was doing to him. "Ohhh...hmmmm, that is. I trusted you, though at the time I had no idea why." He leaned his head back and swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he bit the inside of his lip. To his great relief, Brennan loosened her grip further as the seriousness of his response weighed on her, though she did not pull away entirely. "I took a leap of faith then, Bren, and that is a leap I continue to be willing to take."

"Do you care for me?" she asked simply, letting her hand fall away as she brought her eyes up to meet his.

"Yes, of course," he said. "I care deeply for you, Bren. More than I think I have about any person I have ever known. And I can only imagine that those feelings will continue to grow and increase as time passes."

"Then, know I care for you in much the same way," she said gently, tilting her head as she stared at him with true vulnerable sincerity clearly discernible on her face.

"Do you?" he breathed, almost afraid to hear her answer. "Do you really, Bren?"

"Yes," she affirmed. "I do. And, perhaps, we can let that be enough for now? I-I would...I would be able to derive contentment from that, I think. Would...would you?"

Booth nodded, unable to suppress a smile at hearing her words. "Yes," he said firmly. "That would be enough for me for now. I-I...well..." His voice trailed off as he felt her reach for him again, slowly curling her fingers around his hardening flesh. He sucked in a sharp breath at feeling her touch him this way, then squeezed her hand once before letting go. As her hand closed around him, he growled in mild frustration, finding himself unable to complete his thought as he became distracted by her touch. "Ohhh," he moaned, a couple of seconds passing before he brought both of his hands up to cup her face in his palms. "That...that would be enough," he said again in a husky voice as he gently pulled her face to his and kissed her.

As he pressed his lips to hers, he felt her mouth open and her tongue slide between his lips into his mouth. As her tongue glanced off of his, he groaned, the sound rumbling deep in his chest as he held her face to his, refusing to let go of her kiss. After that, things between them moved quickly, and no sooner had their lips parted so that each might take a much-needed breath when Booth laid back on the bed, pulling her onto him as he felt her warm body press insistently against his. The sweat on their skin was barely dry when they began again, their bodies bathed in the moonlight that streamed in from the tiny window high on the wall of her cell. She rode him enthusiastically, her long moans peaking in a choked cry before he grabbed her hips and rolled them over, entering her with firm, urgent strokes as his own murmurs became soft moans, finally ending in a loud grunt and a long, quivering groan as he called her name out at the very moment he broke apart and spasmed inside of her. A couple of more minutes passed between them as their ragged breaths finally began to rise and fall more or less normally, and after a little while, he rolled away from her, smiling faintly as a small whine escaped her lips as he slipped out of her.

Eventually, he saw the shaft of moonlight had moved along the wall of her cell, leaving no question that it would soon be time for Matins and that he would have to leave her. Slowly, he shifted in the bed, and moved to stand.

"Bren—" he whispered. "I should go."

"Mmmm," she protested, cracking open a reluctant eye as he peeled her deliciously naked form from on top of his chest where she'd settled after they'd achieved their mutual orgasms. "I'm not going to sleep, I promise."

"I know," he chuckled. "But, you can if you want...I-I just—I can't stay to be your pillow."

Shifting again, she yawned as she said, "I wish you didn't have to go."

"So do I," he said with a smile. "But, as the cock crows, it's best if I go now. That way you can still get some sleep if you want before Angela comes with your breakfast."

"I think," she said, "Strange as it is for me to admit this, but I think I've come to sleep more peacefully and more deeply during the few minutes I steal with you when we've dozed than when I have the entire night to slumber by myself. That's strange, isn't it?"

"No," he replied. "I feel the same way. I've come to hate sleeping by myself."

Reaching down, he began to gather his clothes from where he'd haphazardly shed them on the floor earlier.

She watched him with an appreciative eye as she yawned again. Then, she added, "One of these days, once I'm free...we'll have to see what we can do about seeing if our preferences hold beyond the small clutch of minutes we've been able to steal on occasion to doze off during, hmmmm?"

"Mmmm," Booth murmured, with an appreciative nod. "Yes." As he pulled his robe over his head, something on the tiny table in the corner caught his eye. Letting his robe fall over his shins, he reached over, and touched the leatherbound book. "You know," he said, tapping his finger on the outside of the book's cover. "I think I've seen this several times before now, and I've always meant to ask you about it, but I keep forgetting—"

"Because we keep getting distracted by stripping off our clothes and tumbling into bed as soon as you walk in here?" Brennan asked cheekily.

"Well," Booth said, flushing a bit at her response. "You make it seem like, firstly, that's a bad thing, and secondly, as if it's all my doing. Neither are the case, as I'm quite certain you well know, my dear Bren."

"Perhaps," she chuckled. Then, reaching over from where she laid in bed, she pointed at the book and said, "It was my mother's—her _Book of Hours_. My father brought it to me some weeks ago so that I wouldn't go completely out of my mind from sheer boredom during the time between my interrogations He wanted me to have something to read to help pass the hours...and he rather enjoyed that pun on its dual purpose thus, I think." She paused and gave him another saucy smile as she said, "At the time he brought it, I couldn't tell him that I had other sources of...well..._diversion _that had begun to make my time pass more quickly than it had before his last visit."

Booth smirked at her remark, then opened the book and saw the hand-painted illuminations on one side and the beautifully-laid calligraphy on the facing page. "It's a lovely book," he said, carefully turning the pages as he skimmed the Latin prayers, devotions and psalms inscribed therein, smiling as he recalled his initial surprise at discovering that Brennan could not only read, but read both in English and Latin. "Absolutely beautiful, Bren," he whispered as he admired a particular illustration of the Virgin Mary nursing the infant Savior. "Indeed, I don't believe I've ever seen a more beautiful _Book of Hours_ in my life. It's wonderful, really."

"It was a present to my mother from Queen Jane before she died," Brennan explained. "I believe at one point the king had given it to her before she in turn gave it to my mother. My mother told me that it most likely came from the Venerable Margaret's library because of its age and its high level of artistic quality, but I've no way of knowing if that is true or not."

Booth arched an impressed eyebrow. "Well," he said, closing the book's cover, unsure of what else to say. He hated these moments, the last minutes before they had to part ways. It puzzled him that, no matter how many times they observed the ritual of him dressing and readying himself to leave her, it never became easier. In fact, it seemed to become more difficult with every parting.

As she saw him staring at the book, studying it so closely, she wondered if he lingered because of the book. Hoping to make the parting more easy for him, she offered, "You can take it with you if you like, if you'd like to look at it more closely...I'm sure you've read many such versions before...I-I just...that is, if you like it, I'd be happy to let you borrow it."

"Really?" he blinked at her, clearly surprised at her generous offer.

"Yes," she told him. "You can take it, just...promise me that you'll to take care of it. I don't—I don't have a lot of things left that belonged to my mother. My father was never one that was keen on the preservation of such keepsakes."

"Really?" Booth asked again, picking the book up and stroking his fingers over the leather spine. "You're sure? I'll bring it with me the next time I see you, and I promise I'll take the utmost care with it. I'll treat it with the same reverence and devotion as I do with what I think has become the most precious thing in the world to me."

"Oh?" Brennan chuckled. "And, what would that be?"

"You," he smiled.

Flushing a bit at his compliment, Brennan said, "Well, then, by all means. Of course. Take it. Because, as I said before, I have trust and faith in you, Booth. Just promise you'll take care of it and keep it safe and bring it back to me, as I know you will."

Booth grinned, turning the book over in his hands before setting it down. He reached for his black wool hooded cloak and put it on, then he picked the book up again. Clutching it to his chest, he looked at her reclining in her bed and his grin faded into a pouting frown.

"I have to go, Bren," he whispered.

"I know," she said sadly. "I know."

"Come 'ere," he said.

Brennan swung her legs over the side of the bed, pausing briefly before standing up and walking over to him. He opened his arms and she crashed into his embrace.

"Be careful," she whispered into his ear, peppering his jaw with small, light kisses.

"Shhhh," he whispered back. "It's alright...I'm only going to Lambeth Palace in the morning, Bren. I'll deliver my report, and that will be that. It's not so far...certainly not to the far ends of the earth. I should be back tonight," he said, placing a soft kiss on the flat space in front of her ear. He let his lips linger on her salty skin, kissing her one more time before pulling away. "Bren," he murmured, turning her head with a gentle touch of his index finger to her chin.

She raised her face slightly and their lips met again. At first, their kiss was hesitant, as if each of them were afraid to begin to kiss knowing that it was the last thing separating them from the moment that he would have to leave her again. After a few seconds, their reticence evaporated and their mouths came together again, his lips covering hers as she greedily drew his eager tongue into her mouth. She moaned into his kiss as their tongues danced in the warm, sweet, wet space between them, their lips pulling apart only briefly before coming together again. Eventually, he gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze as he pulled away.

"G'bye, Bren," he said quietly, kissing her one last time on the lips and again, briefly, on the the forehead before stepping away from her. "Be good," he told her with a laugh. "I'll see you tonight," he whispered as he watched her nod with glistening eyes.

With one final look at her, he gave her a playful wink and then let the door close quietly behind him as she watched him leave.

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><p><strong>AN: **_Hmmm. A lot happened in this chapter. These two have acknowledged, to themselves and each other, that their affair is about more than just, as Booth put it, "bodies and sweat." And, while they haven't figured out how to solve the scrummy conundrum of how to be something together since he's still very much a priest, they seem to have decided to make an effort to be together, in some fashion._

_Okay, so this is not like any other fic either of us have ever read, and it's quite a bit different than the other stuff that's posting out there. (Who else brings you chapters with deep emotional conversations between B&B, discussions of the First and Second Lateran Councils in the 12th century, along with the sparky bits you all love?)_

_You've gotta tell us what you think of this chapter. It's an important one, and one we put a lot of work into making as in-character, believable and accurate (historically and otherwise) as we could. So, please, speak up. Let us know you're out there reading. The psychic revenue we get from hearing from readers like you is the only source of compensation we receive from the work we put into these things. Take a moment and share your thoughts._

_So, please, go ahead and click that big, sparkly bright blue review button down there._

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_Thanks. You know we love you guys!_


	12. The Fork in the Road

**The Inquisitor**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128  
><strong>Rated: <strong>M  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox by adverse possession. ::blinks:: Okay, not really. But, you get the gist.

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><p><strong>AN: **_Our apologies to all for the delay in getting this up. Real life began to encroach on our writing/editing schedules in a very real way, with each of us traveling for one reason or another (one of us for four consecutive weeks, which makes it amazing we managed to post anything). But we're back, baby, and so are our fearless heroes. Let's see what they're up to. Last we checked, Father Seeley Booth had an important errand to run._

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><p><strong>Chapter 12: The Fork in the Road<strong>

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><p>The next morning found Booth riding the short distance from Westminster to Lambeth Palace, his mind pleasantly occupied rehashing the wonderful hours he had spent in Brennan's cell the previous night. As his horse covered the last few thousand yards of his approach, he couldn't help but smile as the rolling, percussive motion of the gallop reminded him of the way he had taken her the first time that night—hard and fast, growling as he started to pound into her, and, even after he'd realized how out of control he was, there had been a certain desperation in their joining since it had been a couple of nights since he had last bedded her—and a tingle traveled from the base of his spine down his legs all the way to where the balls of his feet met the stirrups at the deliciousness of the memory. Already, he missed her. But, he promised himself, he would more than make up for it once the cloak of darkness brought him the ability to go to her undetected once more.<p>

As he rode by the stately brick gatehouse in the design that had been popularized since the reign of King Henry VIII, Booth couldn't help but feel impressed at the splendor of the Archbishop of Canterbury's London residence. It had been built on marshy land that nobody had wanted when it had been acquired in the Middle Ages, beginning in the thirteenth century, during the tenure of Hubert Walker in the time of King John. Walker, a powerful man who'd simultaneously served as Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Chancellor of the Realm, and Chief Justiciar of the Realm, had bought the land at a time when it was known to be outside the urban confines of London.

Now, more than three hundred years later, Lambeth Palace sat in the heart of the capital's most powerful quarters, only a few yards from the sacred Westminster Abbey and the stately Palace of Westminster. Although not as much a favorite of Queen Mary as Greenwich or Hampton Court or Whitehall, as had been the case during her father's tumultuous reign since much of the royal palace had burned in 1512, Westminster was still an important seat of legislative power since both houses of Parliament and the courts held their meetings there. Located on the south bank of the River Thames, Lambeth Palace had been named after the fact that it was usually reached by water when the the archbishops traveled to and from its confines.

For the more ordinary visitors like Booth, the hard-packed dirt roads served as the entryway to the palace. Booth sensed he was close to his final destination as his horse instinctively slowed its gallop to a canter, and he shook away his personal thoughts as he rode up to the main castle-like structure of the archbishop's complex, a four-story tower rising from the three-story stone edifice, its corners marked by small battlements. It was a ride he'd made many times before over the months of his tenure in England. As he arrived in the courtyard, he dismounted in front of a fig tree sapling that was Cardinal Pole's pride and joy since he'd cultivated the seedling from a White Marseille fig tree that he'd brought with him from Italy and planted in 1552, thus introducing, so it was said, the tree to England's shores for the first time. Booth, who'd never had much of a taste for the sticky sweet fruit, was pleased to see Pole's plant was thriving, but knew in coming years that he'd have to find some way to politely decline the archbishop's offer of the dessert when the tree began to bear fruit. Smiling to himself, Booth adjusted his robes as he gave the small fig tree one final look and then continued on his way, gently leading his horse by the bridle towards the palace's stables.

After turning his horse over to stableboy, Booth was quickly shown into the archbishop's office by a young Servite friar, perhaps no more than twenty years of age, whom Booth knew was Pole's page. He nodded his thanks at the young man, Vincent—a nervous if incredibly well-read creature—then turned to face his friend and mentor. As the door shut loudly behind Booth, the archbishop looked up from a stack of vellum documents and smiled.

"My son," he said, rising from his chair and walking around to greet Booth, who bowed his head reverently and kissed his ring in deference to his powerful mentor.

"Your Eminence," he said. "Please, forgive my delay. As my message said, I anticipated being here first thing after Matins, but I was delayed. I came as quickly as I could, but I'd forgotten that today was market day, so the London Bridge was more crowded than usual. It took me quite a while—"

Pole laughed. "My boy," he said. "It's fine, really. It's not as if I've spent all morning waiting for you with nothing to do. I'm just glad you're here. You look much improved." He smiled at the young priest who stood before him, skimming his tall, robed form with critical eyes. "From what I see before me, you're feeling better, I trust? I know from Brother Wyatt that you took ill a few weeks ago. I was worried for you, my boy. I ordered several masses to be said for the sanctity of your soul, and bless the Holy Mother and all the saints, it appears as if our prayers were heard."

Booth swallowed as he remembered the seemingly endless days he spent in the infirmary, unable to get word to Brennan. He remembered laying there, clad only in his leggings, with a thin sheet draped over his hips and his bare feet hanging over the edge of his bed, staring at the dark wooden beams that ran across the wattle and daub ceiling of the hot, airless room. Noel, the strange-looking red-headed novitiate who'd served as Brother Paul's assistant, sat in the corner of the room, reading a book of some sort and humming a tune which, repeated over and over again, gnawed at Booth's patience like the tines of a fork screeching against a ceramic plate. Squeezing his eyes shut, he'd tried to empty his mind of the sights and sounds of the infirmary, instead thinking of being with Brennan, in her bed, as he'd planned to be before he was spirited away and quarantined. He thought of her—her eyes, her voice, her smile, and the graceful way she moved, but also, after the last time they'd been together, the way she smelled, the way she felt when he was inside of her, the sounds she made as she peaked, and the way he imagined her beautiful face slackened at the moment of her release. He sustained himself during the hours and days of monotony with thoughts of her and her alone.

"I'm feeling much better, Your Eminence," he said with a smile, thinking how one night in the arms of one particular woman seemed to quickly chase away all of his lingering melancholy.

"I'm quite glad to hear that," Pole said with a nod as he made his way back around to the large, comfortable chair behind his desk. "You _do _look much improved—more hearty and robust than I can remember seeing you in some time. Perhaps you've finally acclimated to this English clime of our homeland, hmmm?" the archbishop didn't wait for an answer before he continued. "Please," he indicated with a wave of his hand for Booth to take his seat in the dark brown leather-backed chair opposite him. Booth did as he was bid, glancing out the window at the ancient oak that shaded the archbishop's office from the hard afternoon sun. Pole leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes as he studied his protégé's face. "So, from your last piece of correspondence, it seems that you've done as I instructed you and that things have finally turned in the case of the midwife, Brennan," he said evenly. "Is that correct?"

"Yes," Booth said, reaching down into his well-worn leather satchel and retrieving a tightly-rolled vellum scroll that bore several dark red wax seals, indicating its official importance and legal significance. "As I indicated to you in my last message," he said. "I believe I've resolved the matter to a satisfactory end. Here's the final report of my official findings, Your Eminence." He bowed as he stepped forward and reached across the desk to hand Pole the document.

Using the tip of his fingernail, Pole slid his finger underneath the seals and broke them before he unfurled the document and began to read, his eyes periodically narrowing as they skated across the fine penmanship of Booth's elegant scroll, his lips moving silently as he scanned the text. When he finished, he lowered the sheaf and leveled a quizzical stare at Booth.

"Well, well, well," Pole murmured, more to himself than to Booth. His chapped lips contorted as his weathered face twisted into a thoughtful look, and he considered what he'd just read, then looked back to Booth. "If that doesn't take the cake, I don't know what does. I would ask you if you are quite certain of these findings, my son," he said. "But I know you to be diligent and and unwavering in your pursuit of the truth in such things, so while I may find this a somewhat surprising outcome, I do not doubt its veracity."

Booth hesitated as he scanned the archbishop's dark eyes, then shrugged. "This woman, Temperance Brennan, is no witch or sorceress," he said. "Undoubtedly, she has espoused heretical ideas which she voiced even in the context of my various interviews with her."

He took a long breath, thinking of the first few meetings he had with Brennan and how they'd skirmished, each one brandishing a rapier wit as they parried with words and used their fine intellects to do a certain type of battle with one another, a process, that in the end, had lit the embers to something that would smolder for only so long before it blazed into something greater than them both.

"She's confessed to the sin of heresy, as I've noted, and rendered a confession to that effect which has been given in writing—I have a copy here—and her family's already been assessed the usual fine while she's already been informed of the penance she'll have to perform in light of the forgiveness she's sought for her sins and begun to atone for her transgressions."

"Hmmmph," Pole said when Booth had finished talking. He set the scroll on his desk and studied his protege for a minute before he spoke once more. "It seems as if you've thought of everything—as usual, you've been your normally thorough self." He smiled at Booth. "Not that I haven't told you this before, and you don't know my opinion, but I feel it must be said once again, Father Seeley. I'm impressed," Pole said, stroking his long, bushy beard. "Not surprised, mind you, but impressed nonetheless. This woman all but shut down two other inquisitors—experienced, reasonably talented men, both of them—but you've managed to accomplish what they did not, in extracting from her a full confession of heresy, just as I knew you would. Excellent work. Well done, my boy."

"Thank you, Your Eminence," Booth flushed a bit at Pole's praise, as he often did when the older man heaped such accolades at him. He paused only for a minute before he raised what he knew to be the crucial point of the interview. _We're almost there, Bren_, he thought. _Just a bit more, and we're almost there. We're almost home. _

"As to the midwife's fate, I believe she should be released, Your Eminence," he said. "Since, as I said, she's already begun the course of penance I have prescribed for these sins, I don't believe there's any logical reason to keep her away from her home and family any longer than she's already been separated from them." Booth leaned forward in his seat and looked into Pole's piercing dark brown eyes, a color so dark and intense—inherited from his royal forbears—that it made Booth's own look soft and warm in comparison. "You taught me, Your Eminence, that it's important that the Inquisition be known by the people of the realm to be fair in the manner in which it metes out justice to those who have been subjected to its processes. If someone, such as this woman, has submitted to the process, sought absolution, given confession, and made penance for his or her sins, than that individual should be freed, that he or she might show others that the path back to the true Holy Catholic faith is one of righteousness. Even in light of...well...other considerations."

Pole narrowed his eyes as a smirk danced across his lips at hearing Booth's legalistic rant. "My son," he said, his voice low and even. "I know you ache to be back in Rome, but this isn't the curia. So, there's no need for you to deliver a full oral argument here_,_" he chuckled. "If you, in your discretion, believe this woman innocent of the charges you've cleared her of, and she performs the necessary penance to absolve her of those crimes against God that she has committed, and confessed to them of course, I will not stand in the way of her freedom." His brow knit briefly as he wondered why his normally-cocky protégé's confidence seemed to waver on this point, but he waved his hand as if to dismiss Booth's concern as well as his own hesitation. Pole reached across his desk for a sheaf of fresh vellum in front of him, then dipped his quill in the inkwell, hesitating only briefly to catch Booth's gaze before scrawling something on the vellum. "And, as to other parties who may be interested in such...other considerations, well—" Pole stopped for a moment and then shrugged. "My cousin will just have to find another way to solve her succession problems. I will not have the Church used as an instrument for carrying out secular aims of a foreign nation—even if that nation is England—unless the Church directly benefits in some way."

Booth felt a flash of victory well in his chest at the archbishop's words. Still, he endeavored to use as much self control as possible as he sought to maintain what he hoped was an even tempered cadence as he spoke. "As I've said, Your Eminence, this woman is no witch," Booth said. "The evidence against her was falsely given. In fact, in the course of my investigation, I uncovered facts that I'm sure you'll notice in my report there, which concluded that some of the, well, personal...difficulties that this man, Michael Stires, the saddler, had complained of and attributed to Mistress Brennan's alleged dabblings in witchcraft, were in fact the result of his own wife, Daisy, administering an herb to him that, well..." He hesitated, then explained, "Although his wife told me these things under the seal of the confessional, she gave me permission to include the evidence in my report to you, per the strictures on revealing the contents of a penitent's confession, as set by the Fourth Lateran Council in church canon. That's why I've had to use certain aliases and other vague terms there, but the evidence is still enough, I believe to impeach Stires' claims."

His voice trailed off as he watched the archbishop finish scrawling the brief paragraph he'd just personally taken the time to write, sand the vellum, and blow on it a few times to ensure the ink was dry. When he was satisfied, Pole then placed his seal on the document, dripping a few globlets of dark red wax onto the bottom of the vellum page near his ornate signature. He pressed the signet ring he wore into the wax and then pulled away, Booth watching in nervous fascination as he struggled to continue the narrative he'd begun in a coherent manner, before Pole took up his quill once more and resumed writing.

"And, just as an aside, Your Eminence, it's my belief that the man, Michael Stires...you know, the saddler who originally accused Brennan? He should be hauled into the common law courts for attempting to rape the accused. He has forced himself on his wife, which, while it is not a crime, but also leaves no doubt that he's possessed of no more moral compass than a rabid dog. I have no proof of this last charge, Your Eminence, but my gut tells me that if he did it once, and tried it a second time, then it's highly likely that he's violated other women here in vicinity of Marylebone Parish, if not other surrounding areas as well."

Pole narrowed his eyes but did not slow his pen at hearing Booth's words. When his quill stilled its scratching, he looked up with a faint smile. "This," he said, rolling up the document and handing it to Booth, who stood up quickly to retrieve it, "is a warrant authorizing the release of Mistress Temperance Brennan, effective immediately." He paused and then shrugged his shoulders slightly. "As for the saddler, well—I'll have someone look into it. It's a minor matter, but if it's truly important to you—"

"It is, Your Eminence," Booth said fervently.

"Well, then, for you, Father, I'll see that someone follows up with the case," Pole replied. He then gave him a sardonic look that, in such times, reminded Booth that Pole came from royal stock that could be quite ruthless when it wanted to be. "It may take a bit of time, but I'm quite confident that he'll meet his just deserts, hmmm? After all, it's not like I don't know a person or two who's an official of royal justice that can't carry out the Queen's law." Pole stopped, smiled, and then added genially, "Oh, who am I fooling? We both know who I am and who I know. Consider the matter done, my boy."

Booth blinked and bit the inside of his lip to keep from smiling as he held in his hands the keys to his lover's freedom and at the same time realized that Pole was telling him that Stires would be dealt with in due course. "Thank you, Your Eminence," he said, trying to keep all emotion from his voice, even though he felt his heart nearly bursting in his chest as his stomach flipped at the thought of Brennan being free after nearly three months of imprisonment.

"It's nothing, particularly in light of your excellent, excellent work, my boy," Pole said, watching as Booth reached down and slid the warrant into his satchel. He paused, even as Booth moved to stand, and gestured for the younger man to resume his seat. "I know you're in a rush to return to your work at the Dominican house, but I'd have you wait just a moment longer, if you please."

"Yes, Your Eminence?" Booth asked, a bit perplexed as he sat back down.

"There's one other matter which I wish to speak to you about today," he said as Booth raised his head and looked at him with a crinkled brow."Since you are here and all."

"Yes, Your Eminence," he said, his voice even though his eyes widened with uncertainty at hearing the archbishop's suddenly serious tone. He straightened up in his chair and watched as Pole reached over to the side of his desk and picked up two scrolls, one sealed and one not.

"You know, my son, I think, that I trust you more than any of the others," the archbishop said as he turned one of the scrolls in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the ragged edge of the vellum. "Because of that, and I've given this quite some thought, I'd have you know. In fact, your timing has been most fortuitous because I'd been torn about whether to recall you before now in light of the pressing need I've developed even as I knew you'd immersed yourself in the task I'd set before you with the Brennan case."

"I can only hope that I'm worthy of such devotion, Your Eminence," Booth said cautiously, feeling a knot form in the pit of his belly for some reason he couldn't discern.

"It's not misplaced, I know," Pole said. "And, that's why I must dispatch you on another errand even after you've finally reacclimated to our home country."

Booth paled at the archbishop's words as he could only ask quietly, "Your Eminence?" He suddenly felt light-headed as the significance of Pole's words registered in his mind. _Oh, please, no...no, no, no...not...just, no..._

"The wheels of change turn, Father Seeley," Pole said cryptically. "Even now, they move in place, despite the fact that we may now be aware of such progression happening before our very eyes." He stopped and then spoke more plainly as he said, "I have need of you to act as my messenger to Rome," he said. "To carry a message to the Holy Father himself."

Booth's brow furrowed. "Your Eminence," he said, his voice wavering audibly as he stared at the scroll in Pole's hands. "Rome?"

"Yes," Pole said. "Rome."

"But, Rome?" Booth muttered. "I do not—I mean, of course, I'll do anything you have need of me to do, Your Eminence, anything." He swallowed as he stared at the scroll in the archbishop's hands. "You know that...I'm but your loyal and humble servant, but I thought you wished me to continue my work here in England? With the Inquisition cases?"

"I did," Pole nodded. "But, as I said, times are changing, Father Seeley, and with them, new priorities emerge."

"I don't understand," Booth said, slumping back into his chair with a heavy sigh. "I-I...that is, I thought I was just starting to make a real difference here, Your Eminence."

"You are, and were, and I'm very pleased with your efforts, but we both know, my son, that things can change in an instant," Pole said, pursing his lips as he spoke. "Time is of the essence, and we must take advantage of the opportunities that present themselves as a moment's notice. Surely, I don't need to tell _you _that, Father."

"No," Booth responded with a weary sigh. "You don't. But I...it's just...Your Eminence, what is it that this message must be carried to Rome by _me_?"

Pole set the document down and leaned back in his chair. "You may not know this, secluded as you've been in pursuit of your investigation into Mistress Brennan's case, but because I value you and would put your ease at mind, I'm taking you into my confidence when I say the rumors of the Queen's pregnancy are..." His voice trailed off as the tone of his voice darkened before he continued. "Well, let's just say that such rumors are less than accurate. It's well known that Prince Philip hasn't shared my cousin's bed in many months. The gossip...not that I hear these things myself, of course, but I've heard others who've whispered that while it's true the Queen _is _growing something in her belly...well, I'm fairly certain it's not an heir that will save this kingdom for being damned to the rule of that bastard heretic Elizabeth." The archbishop sighed and took a deep breath. "The simple point of the matter is that Elizabeth will be queen. It's only a matter of time, as the only thing that the Queen's growing in her womb is something that will bring on Elizabeth's accession all that much quicker."

Booth glanced down at his hands in his lap and made a fist, then released it again. He nodded, but said nothing as Pole continued.

"I can feel that a time of exile will soon be upon those true sons and daughters of the Holy Church once again," the archbishop observed with a heaviness in his voice that hadn't been there just a moment before. He shrugged and set the sealed scroll down on the desk. "I've done it before, and don't look forward to doing it again, given that I've grown content the past years of peace during my cousin's reign. It's one thing to go into exile as young man, which I did, but to do it at my age is no small task, my boy. However, we all do as we must since we've no choice in these things, but rather must submit to God's will, ehhh?"

Pole picked up the second, unsealed scroll and tapped the edge of desk with it, then looked up into Booth's eyes. "You'll go to Rome, my son, and you'll carry my message to the Holy Father. It is a simple enough task that I know you'll carry out with all the duty and thoroughness that you've always shown in your efforts on my behalf. But—" His voice trailed off as he said, "I would not distract you with such a simplistic task without also giving you the promise of something more challenging to fill your time in the near future. So, there _is _another thing—another task I've devised for you. And, I believe it'll help act as a balm to soothe the sting of me taking you away from the work with the Inquisition here in England to which I know you've adapted so well and found so fulfilling." He waved the scroll in his hand and pointing it towards him with a nod, signaling for Booth to stand up and accept it. "Go ahead, my son," he said. "Read it."

Booth unfurled the document, and began to read. The color instantly drained from his face as he read, his eyes snapping up to meet Pole's expectant glance.

"Your Eminence," he whispered. "I-I..."

He fell silent, his stomach feeling as if it had fallen to the floor. He let the scroll rest on his lap, the thin vellum vibrating as his hand trembled. He felt his heart pounding in his chest and the blood roaring in his ears as he was sure in that moment that they had been found out, that all of his efforts at concealing what had transpired between him and Brennan had failed, that the intimidating manner with which he dealt with the servants and guards had been inadequate to insulate them against gossip. He knew, he just knew, that somehow, in some unforeseeable way, had been discovered. Someone—maybe the servant girl, Angela, or one of the guards—had discovered what they had been doing and reported it to Brother Gordon Wyatt, or to Cardinal Pole himself.

_God help me, _he prayed.

Booth's brow knit low and hard over his eyes as he shook his head slightly and tried to organize the chaotic gush of thoughts that flooded his mind. _But, _he thought, _if he knows about me and Bren, but still wants to send me to Rome as his personal emissary to the Holy Father himself, then it must not matter to him what I have done. _Booth blinked and swallowed hard. _If the idea of me...violating my vows and sinning with this woman—an acknowledged heretic as far as the Church is concerned—caused him to question my faith or worthiness, then he would never send me as his messenger. _He glanced out the window and let his eyes be distracted by the leafy branches of the oak tree swaying in the breeze. _So either he does not know, or does not care._

He took a deep breath and sighed quietly, then bit down on the inside of his lip. _We were so careless, _he chastised himself silently. _I should have known that, despite my stern way of dealing with the guards and strategically dropping the Archbishop's name from time to time to remind them who I was and at whose behest and pleasure I served, someone would slip and..._

He looked down at the letter again and, after a moment, his fluttering heart began to beat again. _But wait, _he thought. _It's not possible. Surely. _He licked his lips as he thought of how it had felt to kiss Brennan that morning, how her tongue had twirled against his own and how it had taken every thread of Booth's self-control not to stay with her just a few minutes longer and feel her thighs press against his hips as they came together again. _I know what I want, God help me, I do. _He closed his eyes and thought of what it would be like to be with her, every night and every morning, to be able to fall asleep with her cradled in the crook of his arm and to awake with her slender arm curled around his waist. _Maybe this is God's way of...but, no...could it really be?_

He glanced once more at the short letter and looked up, his eyes meeting Pole's as he began to speak, his words coming at first in a hesitant stammer. "This...this letter is...if I've understood it correctly, is a request that the Holy Father himself grant me a papal dispensation whereby I am released from my vows." Booth's forehead creased as he tried in vain to still his racing thoughts. "Is that correct?"

"Yes," Pole said, clearly pleased with himself as he saw Booth's reaction. "It is."

"But, Your Eminence, you want me to renounce my vows?" he asked, his voice raspy as his heart began to thunder in earnest inside his chest. "I don't understand..."

Pole smiled faintly as he began to speak. "As difficult as this release from your vows may be for you to conceive of, my boy, I ask you to consider it. To do this, my son, would serve the greater good of the Holy Church." At seeing Booth's eyes narrow, he explained himself further. "As I said, my son, the Queen is not with child, no matter what the rumors may say to the contrary. And, as much as I detest admitting this, the fact of the matter is, my beloved cousin isn't long for this world. She'll soon leave this world, and do so before she can leave an heir of her own body. Unfortunately, when the inevitable comes to pass, my dear Father, and the Queen is called home, the bastard Elizabeth _will _be queen. And upon Elizabeth's succession, I'll be required to leave England and go into exile once again as we both know she'll never act to keep the kingdom in the fold of the Holy Church as Queen Mary has done. She's a reformist, and has no love of anything to do with Rome. I know our time here is limited, so I'm making preparations in anticipation of that shift in power that we'll suffer in fairly short order, I believe."

Booth felt his racing heart begin to slow as he listened to Pole's words. "Yes, Your Eminence," he managed to say, even as the cardinal continued speaking.

"Though I will be gone from this country, once I leave, I'll still need a trustworthy set of eyes and ears in England," he said. "A man who can keep me apprised of what's happening there. I can think of no one else that I trust and possesses the level of skills to complete such a task as I'm sure that you, my boy, are the right one to do this for me." He paused for a short breath before he continued to explain. "But, in order that you might do this thing for me, for the Holy Mother Church, you must be able to stay in England. And to safely stay in England once that bastard Elizabeth is queen, you'll need to to be released from your priestly vows and to leave the Order of St. Dominic—to be an ordinary layman, my son. Otherwise, if you are ought but a simple Englishman, you'll be driven from these shores by the heretic extremists who will seek retribution for God's work that we have done in the years of Queen Mary's reign. Thus, this is the only way that you can hide in plain sight and yet continue to serve God's true Church. Do you understand now why I must ask you to bear this burden?"

"Your Eminence, I-I..."

Booth looked away, his mind awash with a torrent of thoughts that he struggled to organize into any sort of coherence. The Church had been his home, his entire life, since he'd been sent by his family to the priory in Kent to continue his education at only twelve years of age. Now, after almost twenty years of knowing nothing but the life of a cleric, it seemed the Church itself, in the person of Cardinal Reginald de la Pole, sought to send him out into the world to live as an ordinary man. But what seemed stranger to him—even more than the idea of being free from his vows and no longer bound to the Church as a priest and as a member of the Dominican Order—was the realization that he wanted this more than anything, more than he could've imagined such a possibility just a short few weeks earlier.

_In little more than a month, _he mused, _just a single turning of the moon, and hardly more, I've gone from having the Church being my whole world in which I've lived without want of a woman to having a woman be my whole world without whom I..._

_No..._

Booth's face paled.

_Without her._

"I don't know—"

Booth felt a wave a nausea wash over him as his mind raced. _This is the Lord's doing, surely, _he thought. _It has to be. There has to be some...reason. There __has__ to be. God...God is testing me. He must be. Yes. That's it. The Lord often tests us, does He not? _His heart began to pound harder in his chest as the choice laid before him became clear. _I have to leave her, that I can have her. God help me...I-I...oh, God. As much as it pains me...that's it. Only by leaving her now will I be able to have a chance at a life with her in the future. _Booth's stomach clenched at the thought. _Oh, God..._

"My son," the archbishop said gently.

"Yes, Your Eminence?" Booth croaked in reply.

"Think on this if you must," Pole said, his voice soft as he spoke, "but I do believe in my gut that we both know why you are suited to this task. And, it isn't just because of your intellect and other considerable skills, or the fact that you're English, or even my protégé."

"It isn't?" Booth asked, almost afraid of what the older cleric would say in answer to his question.

"No," Pole replied. "It isn't. We both know, my son, that your heart has always been conflicted," the archbishop said, his voice still warm and gentle—almost paternal in its loping cadence—as he watched Booth's tense features suddenly relax. "You have a strong faith and a love of learning that allowed you to grow in the world of the priesthood. But, to truly thrive, you must be allowed to be as you truly are. Until that point, in a way, I think we both know you'd merely be denying the true path which I believe you're supposed to follow in this world. God has a plan for us all, and I believe this moment to be a crucial fork in the road as you continue this journey that you're on."

Booth held the inside of his lip between his teeth as Pole's words echoed in his mind. His heart ached at the thought of having to leave her—at having to spend his nights alone, after spending so many of his nights in her arms. _God, _he prayed. _Is this Your plan for me? That I can set aside my robes and be dispensed of my vows that I can love this woman into whose arms You've led me? That I leave the priesthood of Your blessed Holy Church and serve You some other way? That I live as an ordinary man while still acting for the good of the Church? _His mouth hung open as he struggled to wrap his arms around the concept of being an ordinary man. _What will I do with myself? _he wondered. _How will I make a living? How will I fill my days? _

A single thought, however, gripped his mind and gave him the peace to overlook, for the time being, the difficulties he would face in having to make his way in the secular world: the thought of Brennan, laying in his arms, replete, her cheek nestled against his shoulder, her hair fanned across his naked chest. He pressed his lips into a firm line as he felt a lightness in his gut and an odd, vague sensation like butterflies fluttering in his belly. He focused on the thought of her, and somehow...he knew, that as long as he could do _that..._to hold on to her in his heart and in his mind, he'd be able to endure what he needed to survive until he could finally be free to be with her.

"Now, of course," Pole continued, "if you wish to remain in the God's service in the capacity as a priest and member of the Dominican order, you must tell me. I can't order you to give up your vows. The choice must be yours, and yours alone, as you're the only one who knows what's truly in your heart. But, speak now and then let it be done. Let it all be done."

Booth glanced down, rolled up the vellum, and held the scroll loosely in his hand as he looked up once more into his mentor's eyes.

_This is God's plan for me, _he thought. _If He had some other plan for me, I must believe that He would not have laid open this way for me, blessed as it is by His grace and the Holy Church itself. _He felt a burning in his nostrils as the thought of leaving Brennan tugged again at the tendrils of his mind. _I must be strong, _he told himself. _I must do this thing. I must see where this path that He has placed in front of me goes and do what is required of me. I must do what must be done, no matter what happens next. I'll see it through to the end, even if it pains me so much just at the mere thought of thinking about what lays ahead. _Booth took a deep breath and raised his eyes to meet Pole's.

"You're right, of course, Your Eminence," he said with a firm nod. "As usual, you seem to know me better than I know myself."

"Yes?" Pole blinked, not certain if he understood what Booth was telling him, but hopeful that he did.

"You know that I'm a younger son," Booth said, his voice low and reflective. "The youngest of four, actually. I had no inheritance, no future but what I made for myself. At the age of twelve I was given unto the Church and therein I found my home, a future that I could make for myself. But, as you say, a part of me has always wondered if I could have made something of myself out in the world." Booth sighed, absently rolling the tube of parchment over the top of his thigh. He leaned his head back and swallowed, trying to rid himself of the hard lump in his throat. "Maybe what's happening now is the Lord's way of laying open those opportunities for me, Your Eminence."

_If I'm reading this wrong, Lord, tell me now, _he prayed. _If I misunderstand You, tell me. Give me some sign, some indication that I'm not doing what I should...that I'm headed down the wrong road. Please, let His Eminence be Your voice and tell me that I'm wrong so that I'm not led astray and off the path of destiny which Your plan is for me._

Booth paused, but when Pole said nothing, he continued. "I'll do this thing you ask," he said firmly. "I still wish to serve the Church. And, if you think it's best for the Church that I serve her as a layman and not as a cleric, then so be it. My answer is yes, Your Eminence. Of course. Yes. Whatever you need."

He paused again, thinking of Brennan and how magnificent it felt to be between her legs, his skin glistening with sweat as his ears filled with the sound of her sighs and peaking moans. He felt his cheeks flush at the thought.

"I'll do this thing, Your Eminence," repeating himself once more in solemn agreement. "My answer is yes."

Pole leaned back once more in his broad, sumptuously-upholstered, high-backed leather chair and cocked his head as he regarded the younger man before him with a knowing smile. "You will have to make a living, my boy," he said. "To do something with yourself, to find yourself a trade of some sort, and to make your way in the world." His eyes scanned Booth's broad-shouldered form and a smirk danced across his lips as he imagined his young protégé, with his hard, muscular hands and forearms, swinging a hammer over his head and bringing it crashing down on an anvil with a sonorous _clank_ as he shaped a red-hot length of iron into a horseshoe, raising a sooty arm to wipe the sweat from his forehead. "You're a man of many talents," he said to the young priest. "More even, I'm sure, than I really know about, seeing as how the Holy Church has cultivated certain of your skills and let others lie dormant inside of you."

Booth nodded, gritting his teeth behind closed lips as he felt his belly churn. He raised his hand and raked his fingers through his hair with a sigh. After a moment, he said, "I must say, Your Eminence, that it's a strange thing to think about making a life for oneself—some kind of a normal life, as a type of normal man...even if it's just for appearance's sake—at my age." He paused and shrugged. "It's like...I don't know...maybe it sounds daft, but I suppose this is how a normal man feels at fourteen or fifteen, looking out at his life ahead of him. Except that I've twice that many years under my heels, and am only now having to think of such things."

Booth turned the scroll over in his hand and stared at the vellum, as if the sheepskin itself could somehow speak. He rubbed his thumb across the ragged edge of the scroll and looked up at the archbishop with a faintly sheepish grin. "All this, Your Eminence, that I might not be seen as a Catholic when the new Queen takes the throne?" he asked, struggling to wrap his mind around what he was being asked to do.

"Yes," Pole nodded. "You wouldn't be the first Catholic who's had some issue with the Church and was thought to have renounced your vows. It's happened more often than it should in the years since Luther's fiasco at Worms." He stopped and paused as he said, "Now, there's a thought. Many converts of Luther, you know, especially those who were clerics, often married after renouncing their vows. Ex-priests took wives, often ex-nuns, such as when Luther married Katharina von Bora. It was thought the best way to lend credibility to his preachings on the importance of marriage and family. Now, of course," Pole said with a certain lilt in his tone, "having been dispensed of your priestly vows, a marriage to the right woman, one which I would gladly arrange for you, might go a long way to providing you—well, appropriate cover, as it were—so that it is clear to those who might wonder that you have, in fact, abjured the Papacy. Certainly, I'd never force you to do something against your conscience, my boy, but it's a possibility we should not discount when the time comes to discuss such matters at some point in the future."

"Yes, Your Eminence," Booth whispered. He felt his cheeks flush, his belly fluttering as he imagined himself standing before God, a priest in front of him as he stood next to Brennan. He pictured her wearing her prettiest embroidered dress and with a soft, rosy-cheeked smile on her face, taking vows of a different sort than Booth had ever imagined he'd make. He pressed his lips together to suppress a smile and took a breath. "I-I...well...umm...I shall consider it."

Pole drummed his fingers lightly on the tabletop, silently watching Booth's expressions shift, his eyebrows knitting and relaxing before furrowing again as the scope of what he was about to do slowly percolated through the layers of his well-honed mind. "As I said, you'll be my eyes and ears," Pole further explained, "because, while it's true that Philip might finagle his way into taking a second daughter of Henry VIII as wife, I doubt my cousin Elizabeth, heretic that she is, will allow herself to be as charmed and kowtowed as her half-sister the Queen was by Philip's Burgundian good looks and Hapsburg charm. For that reason, therefore, the Spanish ambassador and his minions will be of no use to me after I must vacate my office here once more in the very near future. And, once that occurs, you'll quickly see why I'll need to have a man such as yourself—a man pure in heart, stolid in faith, and loyal to _me _above all others—in place once Elizabeth comes to the throne."

"Of course, Your Eminence," Booth said with a slight nod and gravity in his voice.

Pole glanced down at his desk, then looked up again, threading his fingers through his long, bushy beard as he smiled faintly. "The transition, my son, from lifelong churchman to layman, will not necessarily be an easy one, even for a man as exquisitely talented as yourself, Father Seeley." The archbishop paused, cracked his knuckles, then continued. "However, I shall do what I can to help make that transition as easy as possible. To that end, I know of a man, a Jew named Micah, a goldsmith, who will be, upon your return from Rome, holding on deposit a modest bequest of two hundred pounds that I'll have made available for your benefit. This sum should be enough to find you a comfortable place to live and to get you started in a trade of some sort as you perfect your cover."

_My cover? _Booth raised his eyebrows, uncertain if he had in fact heard what he thought he had heard. "Your Eminence?"

"You'll be expected to live in London, or thereabouts, near the court," Pole said, chuckling at Booth's confusion. "Or, as close as you can so you stay well informed," Pole said. "Of course, I know you might prefer an academic's life at Oxford or Cambridge, but for now, your duty would lead you away from that. For now, you understand, I'll need you in London." The archbishop stopped for just a few second, not giving Booth any significant time to interject before Pole continued speaking. "Perhaps, at some point in the future, if you still wish to have a position in one of the colleges, that could be arranged at that later date. I'm sure you understand that it really all just depends on when the Queen breathes her last breath—and what Elizabeth does once she comes to the crown. You know the old adage, my son: we must hope for the best, but be prepared for the worst."

"Yes, Your Eminence," Booth said quietly, his mind awash with a swirl of anxiety, excitement, and uncertainty amid the flood of unexpected news he had just received.

"The second letter," Pole said, picking up the other, sealed scroll and pointing at Booth with it. "This correspondence is for the Holy Father's eyes only, as it concerns matters of a sensitive political nature, and you, my son, are...well, let's just say that at this point, and during your transit to Rome, you're safer not knowing the contents thereof. I ask you to trust me, as I have entrusted you, and to convey this message to Rome as quickly as you can. As fast as your horse's legs will carry you. We may not have much time, my son. In fact, I believe we haven't much time at all, so you must go now and must go quickly."

_What is this I am being asked to do? _Booth wondered as his heart began to throb in his chest once more.

"There are Dominican houses along the way who will know to expect you," Pole continued. "I've made all the arrangements, and these friaries will provide you with a night's lodging, a hot meal and a ration of ale, and a fresh horse, since you will be riding these horses to the limit of their endurance—and yours—to reach the Holy See within a month, five weeks at the very most."

"Your Eminence?" Booth finally dared to interrupt, a vaguely ragged edge to his voice as he spoke.

"Yes, my boy?" Pole asked.

"If you already made these arrangements, then you assumed I'd say yes," Booth said. "Were you that certain that I'd say yes?"

Pole smiled wryly. "As I said, Father Seeley, I always hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. There's no man—no young priest or friar I have ever known in all my years, whom I trust more than I trust you. The fact that you're the son of a knight and grew up on a manor where horses were bred and trained—and that you're probably the best rider among the Dominican ranks here in England—is all the better, so I hedged my bets, yes."

He stopped, the look on his face changing again before he took another brief pause and continued speaking.

"You'll have to cross the Alps, alone, on horseback, and will need to do it before the the first snows of winter set in. Many loyal priests and friars I do know, it's true—though none as loyal as you—but I don't know if any of them would be as likely to survive the haste and hardships that this journey will demand of you. But you, my son, I know in my heart to be blessed by God, and I know He will ensure your safety in carrying out and completing this errand for Him on my behalf."

As Booth thought of the logistics of the long, arduous journey and the physical challenge of riding across the length of the continent, from north to south, in a single cycle of the moon, another thought dribbled back to the forefront of his mind, nudged forward by Pole's words which, for whatever reason, did not immediately sink in.

"_We may not have much time, my son. In fact, I believe we haven't much time at all." _

Booth swallowed once as his bowels twisted and a wave of nausea passed through him. "When must I leave, Your Eminence?" he asked, though the dread that bubbled up in his gut like the bile he felt rising in his throat told him the answer before Pole uttered it.

"Today, my boy," the archbishop said, his eyes suddenly hardening as he watched Booth blanch in the wake of his question. "It's now just past midday," he continued, glancing behind him out the window as the sunlight flickered through the leaves of the ancient oak. "If you leave within the hour, on the fresh horse that awaits you in the stable, you should be able to get as far as Chatham tonight, and to Ramsgate by nightfall tomorrow, so that you may secure passage on a merchant vessel to Calais the morning thereafter."

Booth's mouth fell open, and his breaths came shallow as a single word eclipsed every other thought in his mind:

_Bren. _

"Your Eminence," he whispered. "I pray leave that I be given a few minutes to write a letter to my family, that I might tell them that I am going away for a time and not to worry after me."

Pole leaned back in his chair, tilted his head to the side, considering the request as he watched Booth's features harden into a firm resolve. _That's my boy, _he thought with a quiet smile of satisfaction. _I wasn't sure you'd do it, Father. I admit it now...even if it's just to myself. I doubted you, but I shouldn't have done that. Shame on me for doubting your loyalty. You'd give up everything for what you love the most, won't you? That kind of faith and sacrifice is truly rare and should be duly rewarded. For this, I won't begrudge you a few minutes to pen a quick note. _Pole pressed his lips together in a firm line, his mouth disappearing beneath his brush-like moustache, and he nodded to himself. "Yes," the archbishop said. "That table, over there—" He pointed to a scrivener's desk in the corner of the office. "There should be a quill, ink, and parchment for you there. Take a few minutes and do what you must. I'll see to it that my men have ensured everything else is ready for you to depart as soon as you have finished."

Booth took his seat at the secretary's desk and stared for a few moments at the blank sheepskin parchment before reaching for the quill, gently dipping it into the brass inkwell, and, pausing for a second to reflect on how completely everything had changed for him in the space of just a single hour, began to write.

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><p><strong>AN: **_Yes, yes, yes. We know. You hate us. A heartstopping place to break the chapter but we had no choice in the matter. (Well, actually we did, but we think you'll forgive us anyway.)_

_Goodness gracious. Things have certainly changed. She's almost free. Now we learn that he will be released from his vows so they can really be together, in an honorable way—but first he must leave her and endure an ardous, dangerous journey, and it's unclear how long he will be gone. And he has to leave *checks watch* like now. No time for one last visit before he goes. Oh, the drama! (And you wondered if this was really a Dharmasera fic. Yeah, well, now you know.)_

_Oh, and we snuck in a couple of more canonical characters while you weren't looking. Did you catch them?_

_So, what happens now? Well, we can't wait to show you. But you'll need to pay the boatman. This fanfic is unique and uniquely out in left field. The two of us, _**Lesera128**_ and _**dharmamonkey**_, took a lot of risks as writers investing ourselves in writing a piece like this. Don't leave us stranded out here wondering if anyone is still reading and enjoying this piece. Please, let us know you're out there. If you've been a silent lurker until now, please consider de-lurking. We're really very nice people. We won't bite. (Angel!fics notwithstanding.) _

_So, please, go ahead and click that big, sparkly bright blue review button down there._

_You know the one. Yes, our darlings, that button right down there. Mmmm. That's it. You know you want to ;-)_

_Thanks. You know we love you guys! _


	13. Granting Her Freedom

**The Inquisitor**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128  
><strong>Rated: <strong>M  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>_So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox by adverse possession. ::blinks:: Okay, not really. But, you get the gist._

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><p><strong>AN: **_There's really not much to tell you at this point. You've read this far along, so you know the score. _

_However, the _**dharmamonkey **_would like to once again take this opportunity to tip her bowler hat to the other, smarter half of Dharmasera, the amazing _**Lesera128**, _whose fertile imagination birthed the idea that became this story. Even though this fic has been posting under the monkey's profile, it is—like "A Very Bad Idea" and other Dharmasera works that have posted under the monkey's name—in every sense the product of a collaborative effort. (The only reason it posted under one author's name instead of both is that the structural limitations of the FFnet platform do not permit fics to be linked to two author's accounts.) _

_So, give a round of applause to the brainiac brilliance of Ms. _**Lesera128**_. Without her, there would be no "Inquisitor."_

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><p><strong>Chapter 13: Granting Her Freedom<strong>

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><p>Booth walked from Archbishop Pole's office to the stables at Lambeth Palace in a rather unpleasant daze. To say he was still in shock over everything that had just happened to him would be to make more than a mild understatement. The only clear thought that sounded in his mind amid what had become puzzling state of dread infused with a vague excitement was that of the sealed letter he carried on his person. Ironically, it wasn't either of the letters from Pole to Pope Paul IV that held such a strong pull in his mind. No, instead, it was a shorter letter, one of a much more personal nature, that dominated his thoughts as he tried to figure out how he'd be able to get that letter from his hands and into those of his lover, Mistress Temperance Brennan.<p>

For the one thing that Booth knew, no matter what, he wouldn't leave England without letting Brennan know what had happened to him. He wouldn't break all his promises to her. Yes, their circumstances had changed dramatically in the span of an hour, and if the hope of obtaining something better for them in the future meant that he needed to leave her for a time, Booth knew he had to go. But he wouldn't do so without letting her know why he was leaving and without letting her know why he was doing what he was doing and for what purpose. He refused to let her spend a single day in limbo wondering where he had gone and what had happened to him. Even if it meant potentially putting their relationship at risk for discovery, Booth vowed to find someway to get Brennan word before he left London.

He wasn't quite certain how to get her the important news in a way that might not implicate them both in a huge scandal. Because Booth wasn't going to trust just anyone with the letter that contained such vital information for Brennan, even if he'd done his best to write in as vague a way as possible just in case the letter fell into the wrong hands, he knew if they were discovered that could do a lot more than potentially jeopardizing her freedom and their respective souls if the Church found out about the sexual nature of their relationship. Depending on how things went, it could mean both of their lives if somehow someone found a way to twist what had happened between them into something more nefarious than two people coming together because of how they felt for one another.

Booth held the folded piece of vellum in his hand and stroked his thumb over the smooth red seal, which was actually smaller than the usual one that he was used to placing on documents, because he didn't use the signet ring of his inquisitorial office to press down and mark his closing mark. Instead, he'd taken the point of his quill and, after allowing the shilling-sized blob of melted wax to cool a little, scratched a single character into the wax. He felt the knot that had troubled his throat on and off for the last half hour swell again as he looked at his own thick, stubby thumb and thought of her delicate fingers peeling open the seal and reading his letter. He didn't want to go to Rome—to leave London _and _to leave her—but he knew he had to. He wanted to stay, just a little while longer, hoping that some miraculous last minute reprieve would be delivered to him at the final moment as he looked out into the courtyard behind the stables and noted that the midday shadows had already lengthened just in the brief time since he'd left Pole's office. Knowing that he couldn't waste much more time, he realized that no such reprieve would be his this sad day, and he had no choice but to go that very hour, before the sun sank much lower in the sky.

His heart ached as he felt a overwhelming desire to go to her, to deliver his message by his own hand, to tell her in person, face to face, that he might see her sparkling fair eyes one last time, and touch her soft, slender lips against his once more before he left. But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't risk giving them away, risking her safety or freedom, or placing in peril his one clear chance to attain his own freedom and in so doing give them a chance to be build a life together. He knew that if he returned to the Dominican house in contravention of Pole's orders, it could make the Archbishop suspicious—assuming he didn't already know about them—and yet again expose him and Brennan to undue risk. It was a perilous line they walked, he knew, that they were both so close to being to getting what they both wanted in a way that would bring no one harm or dishonor, only if he could kept their secret for long enough so that no one could destroy their way to happiness before it was even realized between them.

His nostrils burned and flared as he shook his head, trying to set silence the wants that howled from deep inside of him and focus on what he had to do—not just for Cardinal Pole and the Holy Church, but for the woman he cared for so profoundly, even if in the short term it would cause them pain. Booth took a deep breath and imagined himself taking the smoking tendrils of his desire and bottling them up into a tiny glass _alabastron _from ancient times like the one he'd seen unearthed during construction of a church in Rome. _This thing we have, and these things I feel, and which she feels_, he thought. _We can keep it close to our hearts, private but dear, and nourish it there until I return. We have no other choice, _he added soberly.

He imagined her hands, her smooth, white palms facing skyward as she closed her hands around the small bottle of translucent green Roman glass. _Bren, _he thought, _you can do this, too. I know you can. _He rolled his lips firmly between his teeth as a wave of emotion welled up inside of his chest. _God, give her the strength, _he prayed. His heart ached for her, sitting in her cell at that very moment, ignorant of what had come to pass, unaware that he would not be able to be with her that night, or the night after that, or an unknowable number of nights for the foreseeable future. _I'm trying, Bren_, he thought as he waited for one of the boys in the stable to saddle his horse. He breathed another silent prayer as his thoughts bounced back and forth between her and the Almighty. _God help me, and grant me strength. Show me the way. For her. Please. Help me. Please, Lord. Help me._

After another few moments, the conflicted priest was interrupted by the arrival of his horse. "Here, Father," the stableboy said, placing the gelding's reins in Booth's hands. "There's two wineskins and two rations of bread and cheese in there." The boy, a smooth-faced youth of not more than fourteen, pointed at the saddlebag. "Tony here's had five days of rest since his last ride, so he should do well for you, Father. He's a good horse, one of our best, so I think you'll be pleased."

"Thanks, boy," Booth said absentmindedly, placing a silver shilling in the boy's palm. "Very good. You've done well. My thanks."

The young boy nodded, closing his fist around the coin with a wide and innocent smile. "Go with God, Father."

Booth smirked faintly. "Always," he said, even as he thought, _At least, that's what I'm trying to do_. "And you, too, lad."

As the boy nodded his goodbye at the Archbishop's affable favorite, he walked out of the stable, leaving the priest alone but for the soft nickering of the other horses. His nose filled with the smell of the stables—the pungent smell of horse manure, and the sweeter smell of hay—that had always evoked in Booth a sense of home. He turned to the horse, a strong, tall dark bay with a white snip between its nostrils and a white chin. Booth stroked his forefingers down the middle of the horse's face and smiled as the animal snuffled at the contact. He quietly shushed the beast, bringing his hand down to its muzzle and rubbing his cupped palm over the smooth, soft skin of Tony's mouth as he reached into his satchel and pulled out a pair of sugar cubes. He held his hand out and let the horse grab one out of his open palm. The sensation of feeling the animal's big, smooth lips drag across the skin of his palm and pluck the treat from his hand reminded him of the horses he played with on his father's manor in Kent. He remembered his particular favorite, a bright-eyed chestnut mare with a wide blaze down the middle of her face and how she would eat oats right from his hand. A frown crossed his face when he recalled how his mother had come into his room one night in the spring and told him that the mare, Nell, had died while foaling, and how he never had another horse he cared for the way he loved Nell. He fed the second sugar cube to Tony, whispering unintelligible sounds of comfort to the gelding while he blinked away the memory.

Shrugging away such distracting thoughts, Booth sighed and leaned over, checking the saddle to make sure it was properly cinched, not too tight and not too loose, since he always checked his own horse and gear before riding. It wasn't that he didn't trust the work of others, because he did. It was just that Booth had always preferred to err on the side of caution, just in case, and, he admitted silently with a faint smile, he had spent as much time around horses as any of the stableboys employed at Lambeth. Satisfied with what he saw and felt, he stood up and patted the gelding, a dark bay, on the top of the rump.

"You ready, ol' Tony?" he asked the horse with a gentle smile. He took a breath and, for the third or fourth time, slid the satchel he wore around to the front of his chest and opened the flap. He had the two scrolls from Pole, plus the precious, carefully-folded letter to Brennan, a leather-bound copy of the _Confessions of St. Augustine _that he'd always carried with him since receiving it as a gift from his mother upon his ordination many years before_, _Brennan's mother's _Book of Hours _(which he'd contemplated sending back with the letter he had for her, but somewhat selfishly had decided to keep so that he'd at least have _something_ of her to keep with him as he traveled besides his memories)_, _and one item he'd rarely before had occasion to carry—a simple if deadly dagger—but which had been slipped into his bag by the archbishop, who said only, "One never can be too careful in times like these, boy."

Booth took a step back and looked at the horse once more, slumping his head with a sigh, then took a deep breath as he tried to summon up the resolve to move.

_God, help me. Please help me_, he prayed again. _Give me some type of sign. Show me the way. Let me know that I'm on the right path, that what I'm doing is Your will and not the temptation of the Devil. Please. Help me._

Somewhat ironically, particularly since it was well known that God, the Virgin Mary, and all the Holy Saints never directly answered such prayers in so quick and direct a manner, Booth's answer appeared almost instantly to his plea. He became aware of it not by sight, but first by sound.

"So you were just going to leave, were you?" a male voice asked, nearly causing Booth to jump out of his own skin with surprise.

Booth turned around and stared at the man, whose familiar-looking pale eyes and fading dirty blond hair caused the priest to squint as he tried to figure out where he'd seen him before. He guessed the tall and solidly built man, whose clothes—by the quality, cut, and style of his attire—suggested he was a reasonably successful craftsman of some sort, was in his mid-fifties.

"Who are you?" Booth asked him, his eyebrows hanging low and hard over his eyes as he watched the man step out of the shadow of the adjoining stall and into the sunlight.

"You don't know me, huh?" the man said, his pale eyes twinkling with a contemptuous laugh that, for reasons Booth could not articulate, made him extremely uneasy. "Well, that's a mistake on your part, priest, because for as someone as smart as they all claim you to be, I'd think you _definitely _should know me."

Booth lifted his hand to reach into his satchel but, with a movement of catlike efficiency, the man's left hand flew out and stilled Booth's at the same time that his other hand unsheathed a dagger with a metallic hiss and, before Booth could recognize the silvery flash in the corner of his eye, pressed the side of the blade against his neck, the sharp point pressing into the skin that covered Booth's jugular vein.

"You were just going to leave her to rot in there, weren't you, you conniving papist bastard?"

"What?" Booth wheezed, his eyes blinking nervously as he stared down at the dagger's well-worn, dark brown leather-wrapped hilt as the point of the blade dug firmly into the skin of his neck. "I don't know what you're talking about," he coughed. He felt the knife press harder against his windpipe as he struggled for air. Booth's voice was choked to no more than a silent gasp as he croaked, "Have mercy, for the love of God."

"Like you had mercy for her?" came a growl. The dangerous tone of the man's voice told Booth that he'd misspoken, and he winced as he felt his supply of oxygen begin to dwindle.

_No, _he thought. _It can't be. Not when we're so close. I won't...I-I won't give in to the damn blade of some common ruffian when we're so close to getting everything we've always wanted. Surely, God, this isn't the answer to my prayers...is it? Show me the way, Lord. Be merciful. Please._

"I don't...know...what...you're...talking about," Booth panted. "But...if you'll sheathe...your weapon and tell me who you are, I'm sure—" He stopped talking in what was no more than a whisper of a growl as he coughed a bit for air, taking in what breaths he could even as the dagger cut into his skin. "—we can discuss this matter...calmly and without fear of either one of us...shedding any blood unnecessarily." Booth coughed again before he asked, "If you're going to slit my throat...don't you think I at least deserve to know what I did first? For the love of God, man. _Please_."

The man narrowed his eyes and pressed the point of the blade into Booth's neck once more for emphasis before releasing it. "Damn lawyers," he snorted as he pushed Booth away, and he watched with some pleasure as the younger man fell to the ground gasping for air. "All of you, whether you practice before the common law courts or at the behest of churchmen, you're always trying to use that tongue of yours to get you out of whatever corner you've rightly painted yourself into. What a load of tripe and horseshite." He looked down at Booth, then shook his head and spat on the hay-strewn ground next to where Booth lay, the utter disdain he felt for the entire legal profession written clearly on his face. "Typical. So damn typical. It doesn't matter if you're a priest or not. Lawyers, though, all of you—you're all the same."

Booth quickly struggled to his feet, his chest heavy with a burning sensation from the lack of air he was now forcing into his lungs in copious amounts. "Who...are...you?" he growled, rubbing the side of his neck where he was sure his attacker had at the very least left his mark—if not had actually drawn blood—as he put two or three feet of distance between himself and the man, more for his own comfort than because of any belief that such space would give him any protection from his would-be attacker.

"I'm Matthew Brennan," the man said in low, even voice that belied the danger behind the threat...and significance in the revelation of his identity. "I believe you're already well-acquainted with my daughter, Temperance."

Booth paled a bit as he stared at the older man's words.

_Well-acquainted with my daughter? _Swallowing awkwardly, he felt the pounding of his heart inside his chest fill his ears with the roaring sound of his own blood and, if only for a few seconds, panic washed over him as he wondered how her father could've found out what they'd done. _But that makes no sense. He can't know. It's not possible. But what else could make him so angry? Damn_— "Master Brennan, I don't—"

"My daughter," he spat at Booth. "Don't try to tell me you have no idea who she is because I know you do, you fen-sucked horn-beast! I know that you're holding her prisoner in the Dominican house in Westminster. I've been watching her for weeks. I know that you're the damn puking black robe that's been assigned to her case. I know you've been the one conducting her interrogations. I may not look like much, but I'm not an idiot. Don't think you can get one over on me. I know what I know, so be honest. Admit that you've had a hand in her imprisonment so we can move on and be done with things, huh?"

Booth's jaw softened as he stared at Brennan's father. "Well," he said, "I'd be happy to admit such a thing if it were the truth. But as you've summed up the situation as you know it to be, it's clear that you aren't quite as well informed as you believe yourself to be. As you've put it, things are...that is to say that you're not completely correct, Master Brennan. Your daughter, well..."

Matthew pursed his lips into a firm line and rolled his jaw from side-to-side as he gave Booth a look that made the younger man's voice trail off. Pleased with himself for successfully intimidating a younger, bigger, stronger man in such a short time, Matthew nodded. "You know, Father," he said, the word _Father _dripping with the same sarcasm that Booth had heard when Brennan uttered it for the first time weeks earlier. "I'm very skilled at the use of a dagger and, though I left it at home today, the _misericorde_." He let the words hang in the heavy, dusty air of the stable for several long moments before continuing. "The point is, I can end you, right here, and no one will even hear you scream." He saw Booth's pupils pulse, then smiled. "So," he said. "Tell me—if I'm so misinformed, then what _is_ correct? Where is my daughter?"

"At the moment," Booth said evenly as he glanced up at the sun, which was just beginning its descent from its midday peak. "It's true, she's probably still in her cell at the Dominican house. However, I delivered a final report of my findings in her case to His Eminence, the Archbishop of Canterbury, not two hours ago. Just now, he issued a warrant authorizing your daughter's release with immediate effect. I expect that Friar Gordon Wyatt, who is in fact the man in control of the comings and goings of prisoners of the _inquisitio _in this diocese, could very well arrange to release her from custody before dusk...and, if, for some reason, it took longer than that...well, it would definitely be within the next forty-eight hours."

Matthew Brennan narrowed his eyes and stared at the Dominican priest who stood before him, even as Booth gave him a defiant look and turned away to resume checking the fittings of his saddle as he waited for a reply. "What are you saying?" he eventually asked when he saw that the priest was doing his best to act like Matthew hadn't intimidated him. Shaking his head, the apothecary said, "That makes absolutely no sense. Even a poor, unlearned sap like me knows that. So, tell me. Why is she being released, after all of what you people have put her through? What's happened? What's really going on here?"

Booth shrugged slightly, but didn't turn around to face the older man from where he continued to tend to his horse. "We've concluded our investigation into the charges that had been levied against your daughter," he said. "She's being released because the findings of the Inquisition are that she did not engage in the witchcraft and the sorcery of which she was accused." Booth ran his thick fingers along the leather strap that fastened the saddle under the horse's chest, checking for cracks, tears or wet-rot. "After weeks of interviews and investigation, my inquest determined that those accusations against her were false and the testimony against her given under perjury. So, to answer your question, Master Brennan, simply put...well, your daughter is being released because she has been found innocent of the most serious of her charges. It's true, she did admit to embracing and perpetuating heretical views, but since she's confessed to those charges, she can pay a fine and do penance for them. Those charges were minor and were the only ones that stood in the way of her freedom once the charges of witchcraft were dismissed as baseless slander."

"You believed her?" Matthew asked, his voice very nearly a sneer as he narrowed his eyes in obvious suspicion. "But, why would you believe her now? You and your papist friends were the ones that were responsible for her being tried as a sorceress in the first place. Why would you have such a change of heart? It makes absolutely no sense."

"Yes, yes it does make sense," Booth told him, resisting the temptation to take Brennan's father's bait. The priest did his best to keep his face neutral as he glanced over his shoulder to see the bewildered yet still distrustful look on the apothecary's face even as he slid his hand under the saddle blanket to make check for burrs or other irritants that might disquiet the horse once they began the first portion of their impending journey, which he knew would be a long and arduous journey for him, even if his steed would be returned to the custody of the parish church at St. Laurence-in-Thanet before he made his way down to the Ramsgate waterfront to embark for Calais.

"It makes perfect sense," Booth said again. "I merely did as any good lawyer should do." He smiled faintly and gave Matthew a slight nod with his chin. "I did my job, Master Brennan, which was always to find out whether your daughter was innocent or guilty of the charges that had been levied against her. My job _wasn't _to just find manufactured proof that would corroborate a presumption of guilt. As such, I kept an open mind and let the evidence lead me to the truth of things. That was it. That was all I did."

Matthew continued to stare at him, and then he cocked his head as he asked, "That was it? That was all you did?" He blinked at Booth several times in utter disbelief. "And, you really expect me to believe that load of shite? Really?"

"Believe it or not," Booth shrugged dismissively. "It's the truth."

"Right," Matthew snickered again with the contempt he obviously felt for Booth clear in his bearing. "And, the truth of things, when you woke up this morning, was suddenly that my daughter isn't a witch? Just like she said?" He rolled his eyes in mockery of Booth as he chortled, "Gee, imagine that. Surprise, surprise. That's exactly what she's said to your lot from the word 'go.'"

"I know," Booth responded, a vague gravity in his voice. "I know that."

"So, you just decided, for some random reason to take her word?" Matthew asked, still disbelieving what he was hearing.

"It wasn't random at all, Master Brennan," Booth explained. "I asked her to tell her story, and I listened to her. I let her speak her mind, and I came to respect her for it."

He paused, smiling briefly at the thought of Brennan. He remembered the first days after he took over her case—the way she stared back at him with those icy, intense blue eyes of hers and how she held her square jaw rigid as she sat straight-backed, unfazed and unbroken despite six weeks of confinement and harsh treatment—and how something about the fiery manner she had about her lit off something deep inside of him, which smoldered for days before finally he could no longer deny the way he burned for want of her.

"I'm sure you know that your daughter is quite remarkable that way," Booth said. "She suffers no fools, saying her due no matter what, with complete honesty and a stout devotion of heart. And as strange as it may sound under the circumstances, I've come to admire her."

Distracted as he was by the thoughts of Brennan, Booth didn't notice the appraising look that Matthew shot him as the priest continued to speak of his daughter. He felt a flutter in his belly as he thought of how she had felt in his arms just a few hours earlier, in the twilight before before dawn, and his ears flushed red at the memory of her face, half-illuminated by the soft, flickering glow of a candle and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat as she moved above him, her body rocking against his as he held his hands to the smooth curves of her hips. The elder man watched Booth's cheeks flush as the priest fell silent and stared mindlessly out into the sunny courtyard. Matthew's bushy blond eyebrows furrowed, knitting low over his pale blue eyes as he shook his head.

"I've found myself becoming quite fond of her, actually," Booth admitted as he shrugged his thoughts back to the present and the suspicious stare of his lover's father. "She's clever and amusing. She carries with her a healthy skepticism in all things, and she's always challenging the assumptions that underlie everything around us." He paused, then added, "Though, having now made your acquaintance, I can guess where she gets that and so it's not something that you need to be told since I know that you already know that about her and value her for it." He pulled his hand from underneath the saddle blanket and turned around. "But," he said with a shrug as he leveled a hard stare at the older man. "For what it's worth, yes, I believed her. I trusted her. I still do. And on that account, I've done everything I could to help ensure that she was treated fairly and worked to bring the truth to light, born out by the facts in evidence which, taken together, weighed strongly in favor of her innocence."

"And, so...that's it? Just like that?" the older man said as he snapped his fingers to emphasize his disbelief. "Now...she'll be free?" Matthew said, a lilt at the end of his sentence revealing a lingering skepticism, despite the way his expression had softened as he dared let himself think that his daughter might soon be home without him having to engage in any criminal activities to obtain her freedom after all. "Simply because you listened to her, were impressed by not only what she had to say but how she said it, and the evidence turned out in her favor?"

"Yes," Booth said nodded simply. "She'll go free." He paused for a minute and then amended his statement, "In fact, she _is _free. She just doesn't know it yet."

As he met the apothecary's acquisitive stare, he looked into Matthew's eyes and saw the same cold fire burning in them that he'd found himself drowning each day he had spent questioning Brennan. He thought of those eyes, and how each time he'd joined with her, those eyes had smoldered and darkened with want each time he'd moved within her. He remembered the last glance they'd shared between them as he stood at the door to her cell, her beautiful blue eyes glistening with tears as he bade her goodbye with the promise to return that night.

_Bren, _he mouthed silently as he felt the round, dull ache in his heart harden into something more intensely painful. He looked down at his feet, shod in black leather riding boots rather than his usual sandals, then raised his eyes to meet her father's gaze. Booth watched the man, whose rigid jaw and withering stare left little doubt that he despised Booth for what he was, and suddenly realized that, despite the vast differences between the two of them, they nonetheless had at least one thing in common. _Like me, _he thought, _he cares deeply for her._ He saw Brennan's fierce spirit and wide-ranging intelligence as he looked into her father's eyes, and knew that she had placed herself at great peril for this man, risking an ignominious death on the gallows to protect him. _Just as she, in a sense, was willing to risk everything to be with me, _he thought. _He would do anything and risk everything to protect her and make her happy. _He took a deep breath and scanned Matthew's face, which had softened somewhat in the minutes since being told that his daughter's freedom was finally at hand. _In this, we're the same, _he told himself. _Though I have every reason to distrust this man who just minutes ago was ready to cut my throat, there's only one good reason_—_one __very__ good reason_—_to trust him._

_Bren._

Wondering if perhaps God had provided for him yet again in placing Brennan's father in his path before he'd departed for the continent, Booth reached into the satchel slung across his chest and pulled out a folded piece of vellum. It was sealed and folded as crisply and neatly as he could manage, the red seal marked with the hand-scrawled initial _B _in the hope that it would let her know from whom the letter had come. Stroking his thumb over the seal once more, he handed the letter to the older man, unable to take his eyes away from the sealed parchment even as Matthew took it from him.

"Here," Booth said quietly. "I-I..." However, as Booth sought to explain to Brennan's father what the item was, he found it difficult to speak. He moved his lips, but found, to his surprise, that no sound came from them even as he felt a hard knot of emotion swell in his throat.

"What is this?" Matthew asked, giving the priest a quizzical eye when the younger man went silent but for the letter he'd offered as if it were some kind of precious booty which he only reluctantly surrendered to the older man's keeping.

After a few seconds, Booth coughed, shook his head, and then answered, "I find I must ask a favor of you, Master Brennan."

"Favor?" Matthew sniggered as his eyes narrowed at the priest. "_You _want to ask a favor of _me_?"

"I must," Booth nodded. The corded muscles of his neck tensed, and for only the second time in their conversation, he displayed a flash of strong emotion. "This is for her," he said quietly. "That is, for your daughter. It explains..." He paused and swallowed, then continued, still unnerved by the way Matthew Brennan's hard, wilting gaze bore into him. "It sets forth an explanation about the findings of the inquisition, as well as a few other things of which she needs to be aware..." He paused, looking at the apothecary with a steady eye, "This must...that is, I need to know that this letter will be delivered to her by a trusted hand. I'd planned to seek out a messenger whom I could pay, but since fortune has put us in the way of one another, perhaps, that is...might I ask that you give this to her?" After a minute, he added softly, "Please?"

"You want me to give this to my daughter?" Matthew asked, his thick blond eyebrows arching expectantly as he balanced the sealed letter in the palm of his hand. Even as he did so, he'd already noted—indeed, he'd noted it almost as soon as Booth had handed the letter to him—the hand-marked seal. He had to steel his instinct to allow the corners of his mouth to twist into a faint smile when he realized that the lack of an imprinted seal marked this as a personal letter, not one from the priest in the his official capacity as inquisitor. "Do you?"

Booth stared at Matthew for a long time—staring into _Brennan's _eyes—before he slowly nodded. "Yes," Booth said quietly. "I do. It would be a personal...that is, I'd consider it a personal favor."

"Personal favor, huh?" Matthew repeated his words. "So, that would mean that you'll owe me a personal debt, ehh, priest?

"What?" Booth asked, arching a brow as he cocked his head in confusion, then shrugged off the remark. _Anything, _he thought. _Whatever it is, fine. Let it be done. Just let me give her this one last thing before I go, that she may know what has become of me, and that I have not abandoned her. Whatever the debt is, it is worth the price. _ "Fine," Booth waved his hand dismissively as he felt a pang of frustration flare at the possibility of Matthew not agreeing to take the letter to his daughter. "Just, yes. As long as you give it to her, that's fine. Whatever. I-I, just...please? Give it to her?"

He stared into the older man's eyes for a long moment, deciding that this might be one those times when he had to take a leap of blind faith, and then turned away. He hitched up his robes and brought his foot up to the stirrup. He stepped into the stirrup and pulled himself up onto the tall bay, swinging his leg around as he settled into the saddle.

"The faster she has the information contained in that letter, the better it will be for her," he said vaguely. "I can't explain how or why this to be the case, but it's true. So please...give it to her tonight when you see her." Booth took a long breath, trying to hide any hint of anxiousness or unease that welled up inside of him, he sought to focus only on making it that night to Chatham. "Will you do this for me, Master Brennan? Please?"

Matthew Brennan narrowed his eyes once more as he looked up at Booth, who sat in the saddle with a certain straight-backed regalness that belied his status as a humble Dominican friar. "Why should I do this for you?" he asked, a raw edge to his voice. "Give me one good reason, priest."

Booth stared down at Matthew from the saddle and felt a warm, chest-filling wave of confidence pass through him in that moment despite the suspicious tone of the older man's voice.

"Because," he replied, gently bringing the reins to touch the right side of the gelding's neck as the horse abruptly wheeled around, causing Brennan's father to gasp slightly and take a quick step back. "Setting aside the fact that it's a relatively small kindness that will cost you almost little to render me, _and _it's the right thing to do, you should do it for no other reason than because of what I did for _her_." Booth stood up in the stirrups and settled down again into the saddle, placing his hands on the pommel of the saddle and holding the reins firmly, stilling the horse for a moment as he noted the flicker behind the older man's eyes. "Because I saved her, Master Brennan," he said, jutting his lower jaw out as he let the words hang in the air for a moment. Booth watched the apothecary's tense features relax slightly as he listened intently, and there was an openness in his expression that suggested to Booth that, perhaps for the first time that afternoon, Matthew was listening without prejudgment.

He shifted the leather reins from one hand to the other then said in a low voice, "I think it's safe to say that between you and I we know that the real reason why your daughter was arrested in the first place was because of you, Master Brennan. But because of her love for you, the filial duty she owes you, and because she's such an amazing woman, your daughter refused to give you up to save herself even though, by those actions, she put herself in real danger. And she did that because of you..._for you_."

He leaned forward in the saddle and looked down into Matthew's eyes. "The fact of the matter is, Master Brennan, it's quite likely that if it weren't _for me_, she would've been hanged, her body burned, and her ashes scattered on unconsecrated ground when she was found guilty of all the charges that were levied against her. From a certain perspective, I think we both know it's true when I say _I _saved her from that fate."

Booth took a breath and watched expectantly as he hoped Brennan's father would accede to the request.

Matthew Brennan looked at the letter in his hands, his eyes darted back up to meet Booth's implacable stare, and at last the older man blinked, signaling his concession to the priest. "Alright," he said with a nod. "Fine. If, as you say, I'll see her today, then, yes, I'll do you this kindness. I'll give it to her as soon as I'm able."

"My thanks," Booth said with a nod, letting go of the breath that, until that moment, he hadn't realized he was holding. He felt his pulse, which had quickened as he had wondered if Brennan's father would agree to deliver the letter, flutter and then slowly return to its usual rhythm. He thought of the night he'd come to her after a week of quarantine in the infirmary, and the way her normally-strong voice had wavered as she'd spoken of not knowing what had befallen him, and how his heart had ached that he had somehow caused her such pain. Once more, he felt a strong pull to see her once more at the Dominican house, but he knew he could not do it. But, by the grace of God and the hand of her father, he would be able to get his message to her, that she would know what had come of him and why so that she wouldn't feel that way again because of him.

Brennan's father again looked up at the priest and then shrugged slightly instead of saying a word.

Booth flashed his eyebrows and smiled. "Your daughter is a good woman," he said to Matthew. "A very good woman. Take care of her." Without a further word, Booth nudged the heel of his riding boot against the gelding's ribs. "Come on," he grunted to the horse, who snorted in response and galloped away, leaving the older man to stare at Booth's rapidly retreating form.

Glancing down at the sealed parchment in his hand one last time, Matthew narrowed his ever suspicious stare, then shrugged his shoulders lightly once more before he tucked the letter into his doublet and quietly disappeared as quickly as he had come.

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><p>It had been a confusing twenty-four hours for Mistress Temperance Brennan.<p>

In some ways, it had gone just as she'd expected. As Booth had promised her, she'd been released. Her freedom, after three months away from her home and family, was hers once more. It was just as Booth had promised her. Indeed, there'd been, as he'd said, a true reason to celebrate. However, the one person that she longed to see to share that celebration with had never appeared. Each time someone entered her cell in anticipation of what was finally happening to her—i.e., her release—she kept expecting to see a warm pair of brown eyes staring at her in contained but happy expectation. But, each time—from the moment Angela brought her her breakfast that morning until she was lead out of her cell by two guards who no longer escorted her in chains, but merely walked her to the doors of the Dominican house—she continued to look for the one person she wanted to see more than any other. But, despite her hopefully optimistic efforts to the contrary, she continued to search in vain.

Eventually, the guards escorted her out the main entrance of the Dominican house that she'd entered a little more than three months earlier. And, again, although a twisting in the pit of her stomach told her that it was increasingly unlikely that he'd be waiting for her outside the house once she exited, Brennan still had to contain a sigh of disappointment as she saw the happy blue eyes of her father waiting for her—not the brown irises of Booth as she'd desperately hoped to see.

Matthew Brennan stood a few steps away from the house and extended his arms towards his daughter once he saw her emerge from what had been her prison for so long. He watched her blink a bit at the brightness of the June sun as it assaulted her vision and then saw her cover her eyes with one hand as she scanned the area. It seemed, to him, that she was searching for something. He lifted his hand in greeting. When she finally saw him, he thought that he saw her flinch just for a split second with a type of emotion that was anything but the happiness that he'd imagined she'd feel at finally seeing him come to take her home. However, the unhappy look was gone as fast as it had appeared, and for a minute, Matthew thought he'd surely imagined it.

Brennan quickly picked up her speed as she threw herself straight into her father's waiting arms. As they wrapped around her, Matthew had to suppress as frown at feeling how bony his normally buxom daughter felt in his tight embrace. A flash of anger and resentment again burned as he wondered what type of mistreatment his daughter had suffered at the hands of the papist church that he resented so much, if for no other reason than that they'd stooped so low to attempt to use her to get to him. Pushing the negative thoughts away, since he knew there would be time enough for retribution later, Matthew tried to ignore how loosely Brennan's clothes hung on her body. Instead, he concentrated on how happy he was to see her and the fact that he was able to freely hold her in his arms once more.

"Hey, baby," he whispered into her ear as he gave her one final squeeze before he pulled away. "How are you doing?"

A smile came onto her face as she said, "Now that I'm out of there, I'm quite well, thank you."

"So, I guess I don't need to ask if you're ready to go home?" Matthew responded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Slowly, Brennan shook her head. "No, not at all," she answered. She then flashed him a reassuring smile that did just about make it allow Matthew to convince himself that he had been imagining Brennan's earlier look of unhappiness. "But, just in case you're wondering—I'm ready...more than ready, actually. I want to _go _home...I want to _be _home."

"Good," Matthew said as he nodded in the direction of the hitching post where he'd left his mare tethered just a short time earlier. "Then, let's be on our way home. Russ and Amy are keeping a celebratory meal for us at the house."

At his words, this time there could be no mistaking the negative flash of emotion that fell across his daughter's face. Brennan's brow furrowed and a small frown crossed her visage. Matthew caught it instantly, and couldn't help but smile as he realized that his daughter had reacted to his words _exactly _as he'd anticipated when he'd spoken his seemingly nonchalant words.

"Don't worry, Tempe," Matthew said soothingly. "No one's been messing with your house...lest of all your kitchen or gardens or stillroom. Russ and Amy are still at their place in Charing with the girls, but they've taken to caring for the house while you've been gone."

Immediately, some of the tension that Matthew had sensed in his daughter seemed to evaporate as he spoke and reassured her that her house was to still her house.

"Very well," Brennan said with a sharp nod. "That's good to hear. I appreciate their assistance."

Again, unable to help himself, Matthew chuckled, "I just bet you do." He reached over and touched her arm with a playful nudge. "I can see you running through an inventory in that pretty little head of yours, Tempe," he said. "You're liable to spent the next three days making sure that Russ and Amy didn't mess with your things or hang your pots and kettles in the wrong order, mmm? You always were the one who liked to have a place for everything and everything in its place." He grinned at seeing his daughter roll her eyes as a irrepressible smile cracked her face. "Well, you needn't worry about your kitchen," he said. "Neither Russ nor Amy would've had much cause or interest to fuss about there. I'm sure every spoon, kettle, and bowl is right where you left it, baby girl."

Rolling her eyes again and breathing an exaggeratedly exasperated sigh, she said, "Father, you make me sound like an ingrate."

"No," he said with a laugh. "Just that you are particular about things. I know you're grateful for the—"

"I _am _grateful," Brennan insisted with a slightly annoyed look at her father. "In fact, I'll thank them both for it at the first convenient opportunity that I have to do so."

"As soon as we're away from here?" Matthew asked her, still not convinced.

Glancing back at the house one last time as she looked over her shoulder, Brennan hesitated only for a few seconds before she slowly nodded her head. "Indeed."

Some of the teasing left Matthew's face as he saw his daughter stare at the front door of the Dominican house that had been her prison for so many months. Extending his hand to help Brennan mount the mare first, Matthew nodded at her as he said quietly, "There's nothing but bad memories to be left there, Tempe. Leave them all behind. We're going home. Back to the life you had before all this nonsense began. Don't you worry about a thing. You'll see. Things will be back to normal in no time at all. It'll be as if you never left. I promise."

"Yes," Brennan said as she mounted the horse, and after another minute, felt her father mount the horse behind her. "I'm sure you're right, Father."

The pair were silent for a few moments as Matthew guided the mare in the direction of their home. After they established a steady canter and avoided much of the foot traffic that was to be found in this part of Westminster, her father sighed softly.

"I'm glad you're coming home, baby girl," he said with a genuine smile as he nodded at her, leaning forward and trying to catch her eye, puzzling at how distant she seemed, though he assured himself that it was just the shock of her sudden freedom. "Very glad."

"As am I," Brennan told him, her thoughts still somewhat distracted as she tried to reason as to why Booth hadn't been there to see her leave as he'd promised her the night before. She stared off in the distance as she let her body melt into her father's strong and reassuring form as he guided the horse to their home. "As am I," she repeated quietly, almost as if she were trying to convince herself that such a thing was true.

The pair rode in silence for a few more minutes. Brennan continued to wonder if something unexpected had happened to Booth, not the least of her worries being that he might've fallen ill and been taken once again into quarantine, this time because he actually was unwell. She was in the middle of trying to figure out what her options were in trying to find out more information once she returned home when her father again interrupted her thoughts.

"You know, Tempe," Matthew told her as he bounced his heels against the horse's muscular rib cage, using his stirruped feet to guide the animal in the direction and speed he wanted them to travel. "Just between you and I, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't somewhat surprised that that damned papist priest actually kept his word."

As soon as he'd spoken, Brennan couldn't help it as she felt her body tense against her father's. She licked her lips once, even as her heart rate increased and the hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up on end. She felt her throat go dry, but she still hoped she sounded somewhat normal when she asked calmly, "Priest?"

Matthew leaned back in the saddle and puzzled at her reaction. He'd felt her shoulders tighten and the back of her neck flush the moment the word _priest_ fell from his lips. _What happened to her back there, that she reacts this way to my mere mention of one of them? _he thought. _God help me, if any one of them laid a hand on her...if they...if he hurt her, I'll_—_God help me. I'm not quite certain what I'll do or to whom, but I know I'll do something that I would have to go to confession for if I still believed in such papist shite. _He felt his own pulse quicken. _That one...the one that gave me the letter. He...could it be? Was...did he...why did he seem to have taken an interest in her in some way? _he asked himself silently. He closed his eyes and tried to soothe the anger he felt rising in his throat as he shook away the thought. _I'll reserve judgment, but so help me God, if he laid a hand on her or hurt her or caused her any sort of pain, he'll rue the day he saw my face. _

Slowly, Matthew nodded his head. "Aye," he said. "It's a long story that I'll be happy to tell you, particularly as I've got a letter for you from one of them, but it can wait until we return home and have taken some refreshment, I think."

"A letter?" Brennan whispered, as she suddenly felt her racing heart skip a beat as a surge of adrenaline flooded her veins. "For me? One of them...that is, are you saying that one of the priests gave you a letter for me?"

"Aye," Matthew confirmed. "I have a letter for you...from one of them. And, it was from a priest. I didn't catch his name, but he said that it was important that I do him the small kindness of giving you the letter as it contained information that you'd both want and need to know."

Brennan slowly inhaled through her nostrils and then exhaled the same way before she asked, "And, you still have this letter, Father?" She felt her hands shake in anticipation of receiving the letter she prayed was from the one ordained priest she desperately wanted to hear from. "You do, don't you?"

"Yes, Tempe," he told her. "I do. Don't worry your pretty little head about it. It's safe and sound, I promise you."

"Did you...did you open it?" Brennan asked, again afraid the altered pitch and slight crack in her voice would give her away to her father for certain since he'd always been an expert in reading people. "Did you happen to read it?" She winced as she heard the question pass from her lips almost in a squeak, despite her best efforts at holding her voice steady and calm.

"Nay," Matthew answered, pursing his lips as he looked at the tightly-braided plaits of his daughter's rich auburn hair and wondered at the emotion that bled through her normally steady and emotionally opaque voice. "As I said, the priest said it was a personal letter meant for you and you alone. I'm sure it's nothing." He paused in speaking, noting as the tips of her ears flushed a delicate pink at his words before he shrugged in silent reply to a question posed only in quiet confines of his own thoughts and smiled again. "But, really, never mind that for now, Tempe, because—as I said, in a bit we'll be home, and you can forget this nightmare of your time with those papist bastards ever happened. It'll be just as if it never was."

Brennan's only response was a furrowing of her brow that her father never saw and an abiding silence which Matthew was only too happy to accept as confirmation of his statement from his daughter as the pair rode on in silence once more toward their home.

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><p><strong>AN: **_Yes, we know. You hate us for that cliffhanger. You really want to know what's in that letter. Yes, and now you see, so does our heroine, Mistress Brennan. You feel her angst, mmm? We're so mean._

_That said, and hoping that you forgive us for our tendency towards painful cliffhangers, we really hope you enjoyed that chapter. You got to see the first meeting between our hero, Father Seeley, and his secret lover's father, the always-lethal and naturally-suspicious Matthew Brennan. And Brennan is finally free! So, what next?_

_Well, yeah—there's the letter, for one thing. And other stuff._

_But first, we would love to hear from you, regulars, intermittent commenters and the legion of silent-but-enthusiastic-lurkers—every one of you is important to us. The ladies of Dharmasera, _**Lesera128 **_and _**dharmamonkey**_, have been absolutely thrilled with the response we've gotten to this extremely __odd__ unique bit of Bones fanfic. This piece has forced us to tread into a lot of uncharted territory, and having never been here before, we want to hear from you, our beloved readers (because we do love you, cliffhangers notwithstanding)._

_So, please, tell us what you thought of this chapter. Give that new review window doohickey (which is not nearly as cool as the sparkly blue button, but alas) a whirl and share your thoughts._

_Thanks for reading! We're grateful for your interest and support._


	14. A Promise to Return

**The Inquisitor**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128  
><strong>Rated: <strong>M  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox by adverse possession. ::blinks:: Okay, not really. But, you get the gist.

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><p><strong>AN:** _Yes, yes, we know. You want to know what's in that letter and you want to know now. Well, here you go._

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><p><strong>Chapter 14: A Promise to Return<strong>

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><p>A few hours later, Brennan found herself walking to a spot some distance from her home that she often came to when she wanted to be alone. It was a good thinking spot, so her father had often described the type of place over the years—a place that allowed one peace and quiet and a pretty vista to look out onto so that one could lose themselves in their thoughts and reflect as they wished.<p>

The spot was on a small crest of what had once been farmland, but now was rapidly being subsumed into the confines of London's growing urban space. The manor of Tyburn had once been a peaceful hamlet, its manor made famous because of the sweet spring water that eventually came to supply some of the wealthier segments of the populace of London with a steady supply of drinking water. Eventually, as time and the population of London grew, so did Tyburn and its sister manor—St. Mary's by the Bourne, eventually shortened to Maryleborn, and finally to Marylebone. During King Henry's reign, Tyburn had received a rather infamous reputation for being a name synonymous with death and sadness since it was where the king had ordered the death of various members of the Pilgrimage of Grace be carried out as their place of execution during the late 1530s. Executions, mostly hangings, had continued at Tyburn under King Henry's reign. After her father's death and her ascension, Queen Mary had occasionally ordered the intermittent gallows to be erected there from time to time as well—although she _did _tend to prefer Smithfield for executions when burning was the proscribed manner in which capital sentence would be passed on the condemned.

Still, for locals who had grown up in the area as Brennan had, Tyburn and Marylebone held more beautiful and less sinister implications. That was what led her to return to her thinking spot—one to which her mother had often taken her to after a particularly difficult confinement had ended badly when Brennan had been her apprentice. It was the space to which Brennan had retreated after her own mother's death when she'd been a teenager. And, she'd gone to it again when she'd lost her husband after less than six months of marriage. In a way, she felt it appropriate that she ended up here with the letter that her father had mentioned to her on their way home firmly in her hand since she once more felt like she had lost something quite precious on this day.

Brennan had known as soon as she'd seen the scrawl of her name on the outside of the packet as to whom it was from. She'd stared at his graceful, if sharply angular, script often and long enough over the final weeks of her imprisonment to recognize it. When she turned it over, and saw the initial scratched into the wax which had sealed the letter, she'd known immediately that she finally had an answer as to why Booth had not been there to celebrate with her when she'd been released as they'd agreed the previous night. However, Brennan had also known enough to realize that, whatever the contents of the missive were, that she should read it alone and in private. That, in turn, meant that the letter had to wait until she could find time to slip away from the rather sumptuous welcome home dinner her family had put together on such short notice to celebrate her release.

Eventually, Brennan had been able to steal away from the festivities when most of the family members had retired to the sitting rooms to doze after such a heavy meal. She'd taken the letter with her as she sneaked away to her thinking spot at Tyburn. By the time she settled herself on the ground, her back straight against her favorite willow tree, and sat looking out onto the churning tides of the River Thames, she knew she was as ready as she was ever going to be to hear what explanation Booth had had for not keeping his word to her as they'd agreed when they'd last seen one another less than twenty-four hours earlier.

The heat of the mid-June summer wasn't as unbearable as it might've been on any other day. A temperate breeze blew off of the river as Brennan watched its greyish green waves lap out downstream. Small merchant boats, and even more numerous barges—the common vehicles that people used to travel the river—dotted the waters as the people of London and its environs went about the simple business of their daily lives. The green leaves of the willow tree swayed slightly in the breeze, casting almost a hypnotic daze about the entire spot. The rustling of the green willow tree leaves combined with the not too distant lapping of the water and the buzz of summer insects as they busily pollinated the honeysuckle blooms whose scent faintly tickled Brennan's noise with each slow breath that she drew into her chest.

As she stared at the rolling currents of the River Thames one last time, Brennan took a deep breath, steeled her resolve, and then moved her thumb nail to scratch at the wax that sealed her letter. Slowly, she unfolded the letter and began to read.

_Bren—_

_When we parted last night, I promised that I would return to you as soon as I could, and I expected that such an occurrence would happen that very night. As you know, I pride myself on being a man of my word. Thus, it is with a heavy heart that I must write you this letter and have it delivered to you by the hand of another as it seems that I will not be seeing you as soon as I had originally hoped._

_In fact, it seriously grieves me to admit it, but the simple fact of the matter is that it will be quite some time before I will be able to lay my eyes on you once again. Though I would rather bade you farewell eye-to-eye and face-to-face, I have only just now been told by His Eminence, the honourable Archbishop, that I am being dispatched immediately to Rome that I might tender a personal message to the Holy Father himself on the Cardinal's behalf. It is only by my firm insistence that I am even able to stay long enough to scribble these few lines to you as I would not have us part without giving you some type of explanation given the pain it caused you when such a thing happened once before not so long ago. I care for you, Bren, and as I hope you believe me that I would never wish to cause you pain, you should know that, though it pains me to leave this way, to leave you this way, I will do everything in my power to return as quickly as I can._

_Now that I have answered the first question that I know you must've spent many hours this day grappling with, I'm sad to tell you that I don't have a good answer for the next question that I know will have jumped into your mind. I'm so very sorry, but I don't know how long I will be gone. The journey alone, from London to Rome and back again, will take at least two or three months of hard travel. It's a journey I've made before, first going over the Channel by ship and then overland by horse across France, through Savoy and Tuscany, and through the papal lands until I can finally reach the Holy See in Rome. As I said, I know this from firsthand experience, as I've crossed the path between Paris and Rome many, many times in my life. But the greater mystery, I think, is how long I will be kept in Rome before I am released to return home. This is a question I cannot even begin to answer, and I know, Bren, how irksome you will find that happenstance. _

_But...know this. If you take away no other piece of information from this missive, I beg you, please remember only this: I will return. Of that, I can assure you. Of that, I can promise. Of that, I do promise you. I will return, and when I do, I hope we will be able to continue the enlightening discussions we've shared over the past few weeks. They mean more to me than I can ever say, and I hope that you know that the pleasure that I've derived from our exchanges is something I will hold dear in my mind and in my heart in the coming weeks and months._

_So that it cannot be said that the bearer of this letter brought you only painful tidings, I save what I hope will be of some comfort to you for the end of this missive. Within forty-eight hours of receiving this letter, the inquisitorial findings on your case will be officially entered into the record, and those findings—that of your innocence on the charge of witchcraft as we'd briefly discussed once before—are final. By the time you receive this note, your father will likely have paid the fine that was adjudged you upon your confession of heresy and repentance. _

_Thus, simply put, though I wish it were news I could convey to you personally, I shared with His Eminence my findings as respects the accusations made against you. He agrees that there is no reason to continue holding you. You will be free, Bren—free to go back to your home in Marylebone and to your father, whom I know you love dearly. You will be free shortly, if you aren't already, in fact, free by the time you read these pitiful lines that I've scrawled to you. I wish I could see the look on your beautiful face when receive this news, but alas, such is not meant to be. As I said, I hope this is some small comfort to you, as I anticipate...no, as I know it will be for me as I board my ship and get ready to cross the Channel for Calais._

_I hope you believe me when I say I do not want to leave, but it is my duty to the Church and to the man to whom I owe so much, the Archbishop himself, that I must do this thing. I had no choice in the matter, and at such a later time, I will explain this to you more fully. I know, once you know the full truth of the matter, you'll see why I had to leave...to leave England and to leave you without anything more than this letter passing between us (the latter for which I am more thankful than I can say, that I might not leave you wondering what became of me as I once had at a time that caused you so much undue angst and anxiousness, fearing the worst of where I'd gone and why, dependent on the wagging tongues of gossip to deliver you news of my fate). Until then, this letter will have to serve, it will have to be enough, for both you and for me...although I don't know how it could ever be such._

_You must believe me when I say that I did not want to do this, Bren. I did not want to leave you. I still don't. But, in the long term, I know you will eventually see the wisdom of why I had to be parted from you in the short term no matter how much it will hurt me, and I flatter myself to think, perhaps how much it will hurt you._

_But, Bren, this I swear, in the name of God the Father, His Son, and all in this world that is holy and true—I will come back. I will return. I will keep my promises. And, then, perhaps we'll find an answer to the question I still don't think I've ever been able to find a satisfying answer to—what is to be done with you, Mistress._

_When this errand of mine is done and behind me, and two thousand miles have passed beneath the hooves of the horses I have ridden, no matter how long it takes, I will come back. I will return. You have my solemn word. _

_Until that point, know this, Bren. You've changed me—my whole world, in truth. I'm not even sure I can comprehend entirely all of the things that have happened to me, to us, and the way you've made me feel. In fact, I can only say that I have never in my years met anyone like you, who touches me as deeply as you have in the short time we've come to know one another._

_Although I've been told by those creatures of such high intelligence and strength of character and depth of spirit_—_i.e., those who would know_—_that I'm skilled with words, I don't know if I can convey how much I feel for you, __because_ _of you, on this point. I'm grateful to you for that fact. Even more, I'm so thankful __for__ you, I don't know how to convey it except to say it. It pains me to see what bitter irony it is, that the one thing in my life that I've truly and freely chosen—the choice to be with you, Bren—is the one thing that I must leave behind as soon as I'd made that choice. I'm sent away, once more, through no choice of my own, far away from the land of my birth, to play a small part in the workings of things far greater than me. _

_If I had a choice in this, I hope you know in your heart, I would choose as I did that first night I came to you. I would choose to be with you, to remain with you, to uncover the meaning of this thing that has suddenly blossomed between us. I would choose to stay. But at the moment, the choice is not mine, though it anguishes me to admit that painful fact. Perhaps I have said too much, and written what should not be written. In fact, I know this—should this letter fall into the wrong hands, it would damn us both. But, I can't help it. I would rather take my chances to say these things to you since I couldn't before we parted, than to leave you wondering, bereft of an explanation as to why I did not come back to you as I'd promised. _

_The depth of the emotions stirred as I penned this missive have been greater than I ever expected and only serve to reinforce my choice that the decision to do as the Cardinal has asked is the right thing to do, both for myself, for you, and for any chance of a future of us that there might be one day. As I said, I do this thing—yes, I do it for not just myself alone. I hope you understand what I mean by that as I write it because even I can't bring myself to put onto paper more than I've already done. So, alas, much must remain unsaid. I think we both know even now that that's always been the case between you and I—but the unsaying of it doesn't make it any less true for me or for you, I think._

_I'm hopeful, Bren—you pale-eyed wench, the intemperate one who's turned my whole world upside down in an instant with a single glance—I'm hopeful that, after I carry out this errand for His Eminence, I'll finally be in a position to exercise a modicum of choice for the first time in my entire life. I'll finally exercise my free will, and perhaps be able to offer you another alternative to consider in solving the conundrum that vexed us so mightily before I left. I will return, Bren, at some point for you, and more importantly, with a question for you. Until then, I hope you will wait for me to give me that answer and so it will let me uncover a new future for myself, a future of a sort that just a few short months ago of which I never would've been able to conceive._

_Know this, Bren—every day that I am gone, I'll be dreaming of the moment I can have that which we shared in the precious few stolen hours that we managed to take when we did. Every night that I'm away, I'l think of you as I lay in my bed, alone, longing for your touch and your warmth and the only way that only one person_—_you_—_has ever made me feel. Every morning that I awake between now and the day I next see your beautiful face again, I'll remind myself that I'm yet one day closer to the day when I'll be able to show you that I'm a man of my word and return home to you._

_Every day that I'm away, I'll think of you and remember you, and yes, even though we disagree on the wherefores and whys, I'll still pray for you, Bren. I'll continue to ask the Lord to protect you, and that He give you peace and strength, every day and every night, until the moment we see one another again. Until then, I pray that you'll be happy and will take me at my word._

_Until we see each other again,_

_B._

Brennan reread the letter three times before she set it down in the curve of her lap, closed her eyes, took several deep breaths, and promised herself that she wouldn't cry. After several minutes in which the dulcet tones of the English summer buzzed in her ears, she concentrated on the one shred of hope that Booth's letter had given her.

_He's a man of his word_, she thought, as a very frustrating familiar wetness pricked at the edge of her eyes. _He doesn't lie. He's always told me that. He always kept his word to me before. He doesn't lie...so if he said he'll return...if he promises me that he'll return...return to me, return for me, then I must take him at his word. I must have trust and faith in him and know that he will not break his promise to me. I must_—_I-I..._

However, as Brennan realized just how heavy a weight Booth's letter had placed on her, she wondered if her life wasn't quite so wonderful as she'd once imagined it to be if only she was, as she now found herself, free of the clutches of the Inquisition, particularly if she had to bear the burden outlined in his letter. Eventually, as she felt the full significance of having had him torn away from her in such a manner settle in her heart and mind, she felt a terrible and overwhelming pain so sharply that the world almost spun in front of her as she tried to not lose herself in how badly everything felt to her. Her deep breaths turned into choked sobs, and the slight wetness that she'd earlier felt blurring her field of vision turned into an outright deluge of tears as she began to cry.

Her tears fell not only for how she felt and because of what had happened to her, but because she knew he was feeling the same way and there was no way for her to comfort him. The cries continued to come, and eventually Brennan _did_ become overwhelmed. She struggled to make sense of the preciousness of the gift that she was only now coming to realized she'd had, the sadness of what she'd apparently now lost, and what she hoped she'd have again if Booth did indeed honor his word and promise to return.

Curling into a small ball, she drew her knees up to her chest, hugging herself tightly as she continued to break down. Her body shook with each painful wail that escaped her raw and choked throat. Eventually, after a very long time, the tears ceased and the cries faded away. Eventually, the only thing that remained was the empty feeling she had in the pit of her stomach as she fought to turn her world right side up once more. And, eventually, the only thing she found that she could cling to was that she had a duty she had to carry out. She would, as she'd promised him, have hope and faith that Booth would do as he'd promised her. He was a man of his word, and if he said he would, she knew...eventually, somehow and in some way, he would return. And, until he did, she'd find a way to be there waiting for him when he finally came home...when he finally came back...when he finally returned.

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><p><strong>~The End~<strong>

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><p><strong>AN:**

_Greetings, friends, Romans, and countrymen. We hope you'll lend us your ears as we share a few parting comments. _

_If you've made it to this point, we not only thank you, but offer our congratulations. At the time of its completion, although people may not realize it, "The Inquisitor" will contain approximately 140,000 words. To give you all some perspective, a normal printed 300-page novel contains approximately 120,000 words. _

_Like most Dharmasera pursuits, this story started out with a simple thought/observation: isn't the image of Booth as a priest kind of hot because of the whole taboo/temptation thing? (Plus, he looks good in black). That was about three months ago. Since then, the story of Father Seeley and Mistress Brennan sort of blossomed. _

_We hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it and sharing it with you. _

_Reviews and feedback are not required, but are most definitely appreciated and gratefully accepted. Our most sincere thanks in advance. _


	15. Epilogue

**The Inquisitor**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey & Lesera128  
><strong>Rated: <strong>M  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>_So, we're still here, and by now, we know as well as you do that we don't own anything. However, we are looking into ways to take control of this sandbox by adverse possession. _::blinks::_ Okay, not really. But, you get the gist._

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><p><strong>Epilogue: The View from Calais<strong>

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><p><em>Six Months Later<em>

The cold, damp wind blew off the Channel and bit hard at Seeley Booth's cheeks as he gazed across the water at the chalk-white cliffs of the Kentish coast, which glittered under the rare, shallow-angled winter sun as they sat a mere twenty-one miles in the distance. It had been just over the span of six months since he sailed from England and stepped off the merchant vessel onto the quay at Calais, his heart heavy with a sadness that he did not, at that point, completely understand. But he'd known even then that he'd never be able to shake the image of Mistress Temperance Brennan's face—and her entrancing blue-gray eyes—from his mind...even if he wanted to, which, as more and more time had passed, was the one thing he could definitely say he didn't ever want to do.

As he stared at the coast, Booth sighed, his warm breath streaming from his nostrils and falling as a cold vapor on his upper lip. Another gust of cold wind, flecked with salty spray, blew off the sea as he cautiously nudged his horse closer to the edge of the bluff. The waves of the roiling sea crashed hard and angrily against the rocks at the base of the cliff. Booth's dapple gray mare snorted in frustration, her thick, white breath puffing from her nose as she stubbornly twisted against the bridle, clomping her hooves against the dry sea grass as she twirled around and away from the edge of the bluff.

"Easy, girl," he whispered to her, reaching up with one hand and pulling his thick burgundy woolen cloak more tightly around his shoulders as he fisted the reins tightly in the other. "There's not much more to our journey, I promise you. With any luck, in the next day or two, I'll sell you for a silver _franc _or _deux _to a horse broker at the port, and you'll be on your way to a gentler pasture than I've been able to give you."

Booth took another deep breath as he turned the mare back to face the sea once more, noting her willingness to respond to the light touch of the rein to her neck now that they were several feet away from the edge of the bluff. She was an excellent horse, bred from Camargue stock with a healthy infusion of Arabian blood, as evidenced by the mare's refined facial structure and clean, tight throatlatch, solid hindquarters and a particularly strong gaskin, and a generally calm, steady temperament. But, Booth noted with a smirk, she was clearly a product of the Burgundian plains from which she'd come since it was very apparent she was unaccustomed to being ridden near cliffs of any kind.

He hunched his shoulders as he leaned over the saddle and turned his head slightly into the hood of his cloak as yet another gust of wind railed against him. The cold made his nose run and his eyes water, and he reached up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, then looked at the streaks left on the soft black calfskin as he rested his hands on the pommel. He shook his head as he thought of the number of nights he'd laid in his bed—at first, a borrowed bed in one of twenty-odd different friaries he stopped at along his thousand-mile ride from Calais all the way through France and over the Pennine Alps into Italy before finally arriving at the Vatican, five weeks after leaving England. Then, later, it had been a bed assigned to him in the friary at the Dominican complex adjacent to the Basilica di Santa Sabina all'Aventino in Rome. Each night, no matter where he'd been, he'd often fallen asleep shedding silent tears as he struggled to make sense of all that had happened to him in the weeks since he had met Brennan.

But, as time had passed, he'd come to realize that as the weeks turned to months that his eyes had welled up with tears in the dark of night not simply because of how his well-ordered life had been so suddenly upended by this woman. No, the ache and sad loneliness he felt was more keen because he felt the pain of her absence from his life. One morning, quite simply, he came to realize that he'd missed her. He missed Brennan. He missed her terribly, missed her so much he felt an ache in his chest every time he thought of her. And the missing nearly overwhelmed him to the point that he was miserable.

In all his life, he'd never had felt this way about anyone, not even when his parents had sent him away to the monastery at the tender age of twelve. Booth had made friends and formed bonds with people throughout the course of his life's journey—among the boys he'd studied with at the Benedictine priory in Kent to the universities in Padua and Paris, during his time as a well-regarded _doctor legis _in the curiae in Rome, and even after his return to England, among the Dominican brethren who were his colleagues and with whom he worked after his appointment to the office of Inquisitor by Reginald de la Pole, the Archbishop of Canterbury. But now, in the months since he'd been forced to leave Brennan behind in the short-term so that they might have something together in the long-term of a future he hoped to fashion with her, all of that seemed so strange to him—that life that he'd known before _her. _It didn't feel familiar or comforting, as it once had. Instead, it felt foreign and strange, and as he sat that January morning atop his restless steed on the bluff at Cap Gris Nez, he felt both anxious and excited that he was finally so close to leaving it all behind.

He was a single boat ride away from finally going home, and leaving everything that had separated them behind. He would find Brennan, and he was going to make a new home with her wherever she wanted him to settle. It didn't matter where they went, or what they did, as long as they were together.

Cardinal Pole—Booth's benefactor and longtime mentor, the man who had sent him to Rome as his personal messenger—was dead, as was Queen Mary, who'd died childless of the very cancer that Pole had mentioned the last time he and Booth spoke in his office at Lambeth Palace. Pole had died on the 17th of November, and word of his death—and the death of Mary, who'd escaped the mortal coil of this world just a scant twelve hours before Pole did—made its way to the Vatican within a few weeks thereafter, carried to Rome on a merchant vessel carrying English wool into the port of Civitavecchia. Booth was in the Vatican Library, reading a thirteenth-century treatise on falconry, _De arte venandi cum avibus_, when another Dominican brother had come into the library with the news.

At hearing word of his mentor's unexpected passing, Booth had been inundated with a flood of emotions: sadness at knowing that he'd never again enjoy the company of the man whom he'd admired since the early days of Booth's studies at Padua, nervousness at what Pole's and Mary's deaths meant for the future of the Holy Church in England, and happy (if somewhat guilty) excitement in knowing that Pole's passing might set in motion the process by which he would be released from his vows and dispatched back to England. Although Booth knew such feelings of _schadenfreude _constituted the sin of _delectatio morosa_, he couldn't help but feel that the news of Pole's and Mary's passings marked a new and blessed beginning for him, even if it did not bode well for the Church itself.

In the days following the news of Pole's death, Booth learned that Cardinal Pole kept his promise to him. Booth glanced down at his feet in the stirrups with a faint smile and noted how strange it still seemed to wear pants, a tunic and a vest with his tall black leather riding boots—the normal clothes of a layman—instead of the white linen robe and black hooded cloak that he wore every day for the ten years he was a member of the _Ordo Praedicatorum, _the Dominican Order of Preachers. Those clothes he'd shed in Rome, along with the initials and titles that together had made him Father Seeley Booth, O.P. Now, granted a dispensation by the Holy Father himself releasing him from his vows as a priest and a mendicant brother, he was merely Seeley Joseph Booth, an ordinary man.

As he looked out on the bright chalk cliffs across the Channel, Booth was reminded of the way Pope Paul IV's fine white robes had shimmered in the bright sunlight on the morning when he'd been called before the Holy Father to be dispensed of his sacred vows. The old Italian pope seemed tired—his features drawn, his eyes framed by dark circles, his cheeks sunken and his hand unsteady—when he placed his palm on the crown of Booth's head as he'd granted the dispensation and had given Booth his blessing.

"_Though you are hereby released from your vows, as has been requested by our recently dearly departed brother, Cardinal Pole," the old Pope told Booth, "you must be steadfast in your faith and never waver in your love of God's Holy Church. The Lord's work lives on in the hearts of the men and women who nourish their faith each day, steeled against the shifting winds that howl around them. No matter how you serve God in this world, my son, you must always remember that and strive to hold true to such an important belief."_

At dawn the following day, Booth began the long journey home, the Pope's words echoing in his mind as he rode north, praying that the mild winter would hold and allow him to reach Paris by Epiphany.

Forcing himself to concentrate on the present, Booth let his mind fall away from his memories of what he hoped would be his last visit to the Eternal City and the literal bosom of the Holy Mother Church. He looked up once more at the glimmering white cliffs in the distance and wondered if she had waited for him—if she had believed him when he wrote in his hastily-penned letter that he would return for her—indeed, if she still wanted him, which he hoped and prayed for, despite having had no contact with her in the six months since he had left her cell at the Dominican house in Westminster. His heart ached more and more each day he went without contact with her but he knew that, for her sake as well as his, he could not risk exposing them by trying to get word to her lest his actions inadvertently possibly jeopardize his one clear chance at happiness with her.

He swallowed and crossed himself, mouthing a silent prayer in the hope that he would find her when he returned, and that they would be able to pick up and resume the thing that had flourished between them—whatever it was that they, a brilliant young Inquisitor and the accused witch and heretic whom he was charged with adjudging, had cultivated between them—now that the chasm of circumstances that separated them was now changed. He was an ordinary layman, no longer bound by the vows of chastity that made their affair illicit and, so long as he remained a priest, condemned her to being no more than his mistress, and she was free, cleared of the wrongfully-laid charges of witchcraft. He closed his eyes and thought of her, remembering how beautiful her skin looked under the bright, warm daylight, and looked forward to seeing her face, her long arms and bare bosom illuminated by the same light he'd seen shine on her high cheekbones and square jaw.

_Bren, it's been nigh two hundred mornings since last I saw your face, _he thought. _A couple of more such mornings and, God willing, your sweet, lovely face shall be the first thing I see when I open my eyes each morning until the dawn of the day I draw my last breath on this earth. _

Soon, in a matter of a few days, he would be back in London, he'd find her, and he would finally make good on his promise to her: _I will come back. I will return._

The mare snuffled again and Booth nodded at her, giving her a nudge in the side and gently tugging the reins to the left as he made his way back down the bluff and headed towards the port in Calais. He blinked and felt the searing cold of the wind blowing against the tears that dribbled down his wind-burned cheek.

_Soon, Bren, _he thought as he glanced one last time at the chalk cliffs shimmering in the distance. _Soon you'll see that I am a man of my word. _

_Soon, you'll see. Soon._

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><p><strong>~The End~ <strong>_(for real)_

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><p><strong>AN: **_ As we promised from the very beginning, "The Inquisitor" has a sequel. It's called "The Return" and has begun to post under **dharmamonkey**'s profile._

_As we mark "The Inquisitor" complete and continue our work on its sequel, "The Return," we'd be grateful for any parting reviews or comments you might have for us concerning "The Inquisitor.'_

_In any case, thank you for supporting our writing._


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